The Consonance of the Hours.

Dear Interested,

What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?  I think I know.  Well-watched is all the drying paint, and the kettle won't boil while you do, so you have a few minutes to kill.  It's a very wide world indeed, baby, and here is a little slice meant especially for you.

The thing consuming my mind, besides bringing you this joyful celebration of our fabulous  cultural wonders, are the hours.  Some time back, I wondered if we spend much more than an hour on anything anymore.  A whole hour, not the 50 minutes of the gym and the school and the doctor's office.  Does dining out take an entire hour?  Not very often.  Where can you go for your sustained interest, I wondered.  Not here, this is hoping to slip through the cracks and into your consciousness, and I know I have only the time it takes for the elevator to reach your floor.

But what if it was a long, slow, languorous elevator?  What if  I slipped into your pocket, and we spent all day, you and I, together?  Where would we start?  On a bench, I think, outside.  We'd begin by listening to the birdsong, and noting the deepening of the green on the leaves of the oaks.  We would spend an hour just on the listening and the greening.  And from there?