a full time job changes everything. so does working nights. the ripe morning glow is all mine. at the studio by sunrise i stretch and twist and leap through the air till my muscles vibrate. on my way home i do not walk so much as slosh. in our cramped kitchen, M and i cook our monk’s lunch: brown rice, beets, and leeks. i stand at the sink, peeling carrots, waiting for M’s quick kiss on my shoulder while he fries up a sausage for himself. at our heels, shoved against the stove, the cat mews for grease. we eat on the living room floor. dishes. i read, rolling onto my stomach then my back, unable to finish more than three pages of victorine, a novel about a 13 year old girl’s quiet, yet explosive, sexuality. its elegant, very lush. however, my mind is all chatter. already i dread my 2pm, sun-soaked commute through the valley despite the natural splendor.  as i speed north, first signs of the sun setting. a small wonder more drivers do not careen off the cliffs, staring into the lavender distance