My back to the sunshine, through cotton and plastic and glass and atmosphere, beating down, reminding me of summer and fall. My feet hang off the stool I’m sitting on. I could be five years old if I wanted, the feeling is just the same. I shift, and listen to the local weather on the radio, and the wind is passing by my hanging feet. If it weren’t for my arching back, I would sit here, whenever I am, and listen and feel the world outside, mere inches away.