We set up the tent, the air mattress, the lantern, pillows, preparing the living room to be camped in.
We will listen to the rain celebrate its landing, read adventure stories under the lantern's light, the heat running on high as the night cools and darkens, dialing it down and closing up the windows some once the boy has drifted off, when there is more reason to be sensible. His toy turtle which will cast colored points of light - green and amber and red - across the walls and ceiling, collecting in the corner as if the galaxy had a cube being pushed against it from underneath and the light was trying to get inside.
Strawberry pancakes in the morning, maple syrup, fresh fruit.
I like the pic the boy took, the flatness of the eyes, the Manson-esque stare.
The vacation is working. This ends my second day of it, entering the weekend right where I would otherwise be leaving. I have done nothing all day long. So easy to forget that nothing is the occasional goal, nothing the expectation, nothing the desire. Only stillness, the sound of the sky's wet collision with the ground. A universe made of nothing stretching on, distances that can not be thought, can not be held, each night unreturned to.