The airplane phases in and out of existence as it skims beneath the surface of the low cloud cover, its blue and red lights and blinking whites fading and reappearing out of the murk. I watch it most of the way on its approach to La Guardia while the dog patiently waits, and I think, "I should write about that."
Later, as I'm heating up the cat's food in the microwave to take the chill off it from the refrigerator, my dozing awareness surfaces, and I find myself acutely aware of my hand on the handle of the oven door, the ticking seconds, the hum of the fridge, the air I'm breathing, the cat practically vibrating with anticipation of her dinner. I wonder why I'm always looking for something "interesting" to write about when, every single moment of every day when I open my foolish eyes, the world is there, waiting for me to see.
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