I find myself walking perhaps no more often than normal, but particularly loving these moments alone walking down Grand Street, love them even more when there is just the slightest bit of rain, bit of snow, occasionally falling. I get some thinking done, but that isn't even the source of the pleasure. It perhaps is my stride, the rhythm of it, and the percieved rhythm that life has in those moments, or perhaps it is my inability in these moments to show my lack of social grace, to perhaps even feel like I may have some in these alone moments.
There was something similar felt as I lay on this man's bed and got head from him, not caring so much about him and not needing to, another lovely solitary walk for me to feel like this world is beautiful and that it moves to my rhythm. I could tease out an analogy here between the rhythm of my pace as I walk and that of his head as he sucks my cock, but that would be a little more crass than I am willing to do right now for two reasons. One, the water on my stove is boiling, ready for me to add some pasta to it. Two, and more importantly (because that water can boil all night long for all I fucking care), my dear friend Peter has just arrived at my house.
Tomorrow, hopefully I can carry this confidence, this rhythm, and use it to fly through my interview at the temp agency bright and early tomorrow morning.