Sunday morning, Evanston
Walked the dog to the lake and back. Streets and houses here are reminiscent of Lake Geneva.
I have the urge to challenge this barista to a latte art throw down. I’m not even that good at latte art.
Afternoon, The Art Institute of Chicago:
There isn’t much time before you have to get to the train. You can’t see everything. It’s okay. Don’t rush. Prioritize. Be present.
I’m not looking for inspiration. I’m looking for permission.
I first fell in love with surrealism more for what I heard from it than what it was saying.
Folk art smells good.
I don’t get overwhelmed, but this has been too much.
A foolish thought crosses my mind: you haven’t experienced any magic this weekend. That’s not right. I haven’t been the protagonist of a movie, but I have experienced plenty of magic.
This train conductor is all over the place with his announcements. Is it his first day, or is Amtrak just super casual?
Overheard on the train: us.
I feel like I need a final thought to conclude the weekend, to tie a bow on it. Why?
another white suburbanite 