Freshly Cut Grass

So much passes unnoticed, fails to attract an eye or an ear, excite the senses enough to interrupt the mind's endless chatter conducted within the windowless walls of itself. Too often, a walk is no more than an exercise in navigation, vague passage through a dreamlike world of shapes floating the outer regions of what really matters, your own thoughts. Time thickens a spun cocoon. The day in all its glory remains out there, sunlight golden on the trees, the smell of freshly cut grass, birdsong filtering through autumn leaves - more distant now from the tightening enclave you slowly weave.