Late last night we flew back from two weeks in Spain and I haven't really recalibrated myself to operate properly at home just yet. The house we were staying in has an exquisite garden, cluttered with statues, flowerpots, trees and whatnot, and one morning, while staring at one of the statues, I found it necessary to write this:

THE INCLEMENCY OF THE SUN

She knows she’ll take the step tomorrow, and as tomorrow comes, she still knows she’ll take it tomorrow. The flowers she clutches to her chest won’t have withered by then, and her Mona Lisa smile, half chipped away already, won’t need readjusting either. She is immersed in deep contemplation of the move she is about to make and the sun will continue to set in front of her unblinking eyes, ten thousand times and counting. She is safe, in the shade of the leaves, her hand slightly raising her skirt and gently covering her vulva, to protect it, from life, for life, and no one will ever hurt her again. And she knows she’ll leave whenever she wants to, anytime now, but not today.