I can’t remember the last time I picked up a book.

Just keep putting yourself in the right places and things will happen.

Crisp air. Birdsong. Sparkling light.

But not related to illness.

Watching the changing landscape.

“I wish I could live here,” she says.

This is becoming harder than it should have been.

But I actually just don’t care.

I pick up a book. I can’t decide if I’m going to like this. I read a few more pages, and then a few more.

Steak salad. The 9-year-old beats me at the word game.

I need to read more.