And now and again I find myself conducting an idle Proustian review of the curves of the spines I have known, regretting not spending more time trailing fingers over the humps of certain vertebrae. Sometimes it might be a good idea to turn off the nostalgia machine.
I don't have to think about where I'm going when I wake up late at night because my feet automatically lead me straight for my wall of glass, where those same fingers trace the distant outline of the Space Needle. Often it is at that point that I feel a need for donning shoes and clothes, for feeling wind and damp and Seattle air.
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