Give me sunlight and I'll be happy, joyous, perfectly pleased. I am a child of the sun and while I am soaking up its rays my soul is refreshed, renewed, rejuvenated. We chased the golden light as it danced across a backyard, shifting rugs and drinks and shoes and plates of food and our behinds to follow it as it arched across green grass. We chased it until we cornered it, or it cornered us, in the upper most, southernmost part of the bricked-in yard. A triangle of light containing almost-friendships and too few old friends, but what did it matter, as long as I could bask in sunlight and stretch out, catlike in the warmth? A blue sky filled with bobbing, wind sped clouds, a delicious mauve and pink and baby blue sunset, delicate and tender, unlike the vicious, sharp-as-a-knife dying of the light in Australia. There are days when I love London, like sun days filled with quiet, velvet moments of solitude and sunshine. My skin is newly honeyed with the light, golden touched again. My thoughts are pleasantly dulled with the words of the weekend papers and the warmth of a lingering, languid afternoon. Days like today, these sun-filled days like today fill my spirit with a pure happiness, they dull the homesick-hurt longing I have for the sea. What need have I of material things, what lack have I of any thing or beast or place or person, with this dusting of golden light, this strong warmth of a new sun on my back, a good book with words I can fall into, the silky sheen of red ripened cherries that burst with a bright taste of summer, this day filled with the promise of long days and sultry nights? What want have I of anything, on a sun day like today?
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