6.6 minutes per sentence

My breakfast this morning lasted almost two hours--with Evangeline, and after she left, Ben. I was still eating pineapples at 9:45, and now the coolness is setting in, the coolness with all its intimations of fall and things falling.

Thursdays are my days "off," but somehow, this Thursday morning has acquired the sharp brightness of an uneasy peace. The rest of the day is pirouetting on steel, and whether the ball bounces forward or backward is uncertain. There are unavoidable facts of course, like the dryer downstairs turning on high heat, like the roaring of motors outside and other things elsewhere, like how certain things must get done before sleep. But facts can be too much to handle on Thursday mornings, and I'm running away for the moment. It would be easier if all the daily duties, the conflicts of interest, the confessions of love could simply collapse into a single photon, and throb radiantly, magnificently, certain in its own paradox. But this is not the case. So what we do is scramble to catch up, scramble to make up, and deal.

The sun is coming out, which means morning will be over soon. The tapestry on my wall has descended again, which means I will climb to press it back up. And the shoes my father sent me have arrived in the mail, which means I will take them out of the box and put them on for the piano concert this evening at 8 o'clock.

Put your shoes on girl. Put your shoes on and go.