This is where I was on the afternoon of the second of September. To me, the most transparent of details that may rather seem a little stale are perhaps the dearest amongst the awry welter of the finest of technicalities to the hackneyed ambiguities; what more shall I ask of my rather frivolous lifestyle than granting me the liberty of longing, of prospecting for the breadth of the offing, of my freedom to bask in the glory of being able to be delightfully buoyant in my daydreams that may only result in being a mere sliver of thought? Wishing dearly for the moist sigh of spring to pry the glassy fingers of frigidness keeping a clutch on the naked earth, or merely wishing, although I believe the result is far from mere, that a particular word would balletically glissade into my ravenous mind missing its last fragment of a puzzle, are the inconveniences that I, only of pure fortuitousness and most certainly not of favor, am blessed with; the mere phenomenon that I possess an innate capacity to, for instance, remark the pale strobe of dawning light hemmed in the horizon, or see the droplets of dew bleeding from the joints of grass in the palest of mornings, or cry in despair at the scalding mouthful of tea on the floor of my mouth, or fret about the spectacle of living and carp about how frankly, breathing is an awful amount of work, or be pained at the hard, raw wood cleaving into the callus on my fourth finger blushing red as I continue on my routine of scribbling and erasing every callow letter I press into my sheet of paper, is astounding, and only when I frankly envisage myself devoid of these fortunes can I acknowledge them lavishly and to my fullest capability. Sometimes, the most transparent of details that may seem a little stale, are the dearest amongst all; and this is where I was on the afternoon of the second of September.