That's the reason for walking. Seeing things at eye level. Sometimes stooping is required. Pretend you are a pretzel but stop short of pain. When I walk, I pass into and through light. Not a shabby place to be. Much like cooking; always like writing a line or two. Here's the irony, I go outside to be inside.
Two vacations ago, no carts rolled down the aisle, the altitude a wren in the buckweed, not to be missed. The silly plans we made got to be so wooden, now in Cincinnati.
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