I am on the drift again. The wending roads beckoning from my within, an untethering from my abouts.
Though the weather is still too warm still for such things, I drew on my fleece jacket, pulled up the hood around my face and over my head as I walked from car to my once-a-week-office-space and felt at home within the folds of fabric. My bare legs incongruent with the jacket over my torso, but I could care less. I used to half-jest that I was made for kilts — my legs have always been too warm and I still wear shorts at home in the winter when everyone else wraps themselves in thick blankets.
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