just writing to write



I woke up on Sunday and stayed in bed reading, except to brush my teeth and a quick trip to the store to buy some coffee. So around 6pm, I decide to walk to to my appointment. It was cold at first but I wore the warm coat that my father had bought for me. I had heard on the radio that there had been some snow that morning but all I saw were silver dollar sized patches of melting snow every few blocks. On Damen and Foster the moon caught my eye. It hung in the east, and it was bright and looked full, hanging up high in an almost cloudless dark blue sky. By the time I got to Andersonville I warmed up enough to take off my knit cap and take my hands out of my pockets. I was tuned to NPR on the little pocket Sony srf-90 fm radio and headphones I carry on me at all times and heard two lectures. The first was on Social Welfare policies in the U.S. and the other was a bit on Emily Dickinson, both of which I had some interest in. They were both short little lectures with some Q&A afterwards and I didnít really learn anything new about either subject but it was still entertaining. When I finally got to my destination I looked at my watch after ringing the buzzer and saw that it had taken me and hour and twelve minutes. It was farther than I thought it would be and while the walk was refreshing, I was glad when my friends let me in and offered me a place to sit and something to drink. I don't know why I just wrote all that. I was just writing to write.

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