daven port

in later years i will embrace Sunday mornings with a new reverence and
appreciation that was lacking when i was a younger man — now they will
seem a welcome respite from busy weeks full of file cabinets and water
coolers and white carpeted walls with giant corkboards — and somewhere in
the back of my mind i will recall the years during which i did not awake before
noon and wonder “what was i doing with all of that time” and “didn’t i
know that it would be a precious commodity” — and i assume that there
will be someone else sitting across from the kitchen table from me and she
will wonder the exact same things and maybe she will even share a doughnut
or a danish with me — but not a cup of coffee, because even in a dream i
cannot stand the taste — and won’t it be nice to trade sections of the
newspaper as the sun is just starting to become courageous over the
horizon and a warm beam is dividing the room in half with a rush hour of
dust particles dancing inside — and my slippers are old and full of holes

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