Sobriquet 52.11

When I woke up this morning, I noticed the sun shining a bit through a miniscule break in the cloud cover. Though I was still half asleep and would, within a few minutes, tumble back into it, I was delighted. I mean, the past few days had looked like this:

Anyway, there's this scene in Horace McCoy's They Shoot Horses, Don't They? that came to mind immediately: Robert Syverton has been stuck inside a seaside building for nearly a month, trying to win a marathon dance competition. For ten minutes a day, he discovers, the sun manages to penetrate the otherwise dark dance floor. He lives for those moments, plans his days around those moments, stands on his tiptoes to feel the last rays of the sun as it moves beyond the window's edge, taking what little natural light was left with it. Today, I felt like Robert. As I lay in bed, I reveled in the sun, fully expecting it to vanish after ten minutes.

When I re-awoke, however, I found that the sky was virtually cloud-free and the sun was shining full-force. At once, I decided to skip writing for today and just walk around in the fresh air.

And it was glorious. As Robert would say, it was lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely.

So, I read a bit more of Disgrace instead.

For tomorrow: Read or write.