There’s space again, and light and breadth. Triangle slits of sunshine are coming through the corner window, and I remember again to look at the colors when I walk around the neighborhood. The buildings all look different, new architecture poking above brick buildings with delicate molding, and trees that have watched the sidewalks for decades before they were tall enough to peak above the rooftops. I think about the energy in the wind, and how the force of a body can only move through this medium in predictable motion without the courage to change the direction of force. I often wonder what’s more important, the reading of great thoughts or the writing of them until I come to terms with the argument that there is not one without the other, just as there is no body without breath and no breadth without perspective.