A long time ago, I read a book by W. Somerset Maugham. It was a book I picked out from the library in prison, maybe seventeen or eighteen years ago. I don't remember much about the book. It went over my head, I guess. I was young and scared and read when I thought no one was looking. But I do remember that the main character "loafed" and that many characters in this book had a problem with his loafing. He loafed for two years. He went here and there. And I thought, How great it must be to be able to wander. To loaf! I'd think these things and put my hand to my cell wall and imagine all the places I could go!
And now, I am loafing. And it's not that wonderful, really. But it is, too. I don't mind it. Some days, I worry about some things. Other days, I don't. I know that tomorrow, if I really wanted to, I could go out and become a grocer or maybe a mechanic, maybe.
Today, it smells like sweet sheets of newspaper. It smells so good, like something is happening without having happened. The dogs know it's in the air. They look at me, knowing, and I look at them, knowing. We agree. Today, we walk. And loaf. We take in this something as it happens. We carry it inside, on our clothes. We dream about it then and hope it's still there in the morning.
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