stop making sense

So far today I have written roughly six or seven decent sentences on an ongoing paper, in a new library. I went to work, but before stopped at Sammy's Diner downstairs for a cup of coffee and something sweet. It was impeccable coffee: the best butter pecan blend has to offer. And the music I heard coming out of the speakers when I sat down--oh the music! Dirty-down country blues, fine for morning and the dance floor in the evening. Some people of alleged wisdom (self-help gurus?) have told us that happiness can only be found on the 'inside'. On the contrary: who needs an interior, an interior 'wisdom', what is an interior, to the magnificent stimuli around me? I smell the air; feel the lady of spring tip-toeing up the stairs; I hear the organs, and the baritone, and the jazz piano, and I am blissfully satisfied.

The point being: you send the gift: I am liberated, like sun, like the leaves.