Heather and I are in Central Park, eyes closed to the sun. Listen. You can sing to yourself here or burn your face pink to red to scarlet. You can read trash novels here without feeling guilty. You can fall asleep here forever. You can disappear.

Your noise would not be missed here.

I do not mean it is noisy enough without your noise - I mean the sounds are dull muted, through the haze of afternoons. We could all be talking or all fall silent and the noise would not change. It is a sun-tree-fresh air noise. It is a we-do-not-care-about-humans-today noise. It is let-the-sun-sizzle-their-brains-to-a-warm-mush noise. It is not our noise at all, but we are lucky to be listening.

We will keep on enjoying this fine day. It is lovely to feel at once so warm and so insignificant.

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