Today, I crave that secret place that only me and my mind know.

This place is green and lush, smells wet, and keeps my skin dewy. 

This place has no networking over lunch.  (The kind of networking that translates to something like: Let’s make a mistake after happy hour.)

This place is not where people do their obligatory nice thing by serving on a charity board.

This place is full of panda bears and tantric yoga.

The air is so that i never get that dry cough that lasts from January to March that makes people stare.

I want to take a survey.

A survey on if these kinds of lunches are actually engaging.

Then, after I am armed with this information. I want to do a trial run where we live in a world in which people only say something that is for the other person.

The woman two tables over is reading Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. She has pixied salt and pepper hair and a wool argyle sweater in gray, navy, cream, and red.  We are the bread that sandwiches this lawyer lunch.

Despite the buzz of desperate attempts to make more money, the gelatto walls, the steely, Atlantic coast, floor and the high quality light that is reflected by white furniture keeps me calm.  Maybe it is because all I can do is write everything.

No reading is maddening. 

I am forced to spend time with my inner toddler.

This toddler is subversive, restless, and ready.

I half recommend reading deprivation.