Even contemporary desert people have a fierce love for water. Or maybe it's a fascination, a disbelief built from arid air. It's the year two-thousand-and-three, and some segemented part of my mind watches suburban grass with widened eyes. Or when I drive past the white pipes stitched across the cornfields up north, it feels like that. So when I stop by the reservoir that sparkles cleanly in the mid-afternoon light, I think that here, this is proof of God. My body is the same way. The way my stomach squeezes and my eyes clench to produce clinging droplets from tear ducts. It's a kind of lopsided prayer I can say in water. I move awkwardly through the swimming pool. Chlorine stings and burns, but my focus is on the way my arm cuts cleanly through the little waves. My almost-weightlessness is a miracle.

Going on a minibreak until tomorrow evening.

Have packed scarf in manner of Grace Kelly; unfortunately, hair seems to dictate that I won't arrive in similiar fashion.