In a pool of buttery sunshine that warms the cement of my kitchen countertop, Freud's "Interpretation of Dreams" waits for me to finish reading the Sunday paper. I squirt some honey into my Rooibos tea and take a bite of a Cassis fruit tart. The sound of Fleet Foxes cushions me as I lean back to feel the sun on my face. I can smell the basil (growing fruitfully out of two old syrup cans) and I decide which Bill Granger recipe I'm going to use tonight for the family when they return from their day out surfing. This is perfection.
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