Sometimes, for whatever ills you may have, be they spiritual, physical, or some poorly defined ill, the greatest possible good that could serve you is to take a pleasant walk, brisk or otherwise, through the city streets.
Now, some might say a nice cup of tea, a warm something or other, probably a throw your grandmother or suitably older woman made for you at some point and which you carelessly drape over the sofa, unless you're expecting guests, of course, then it's tossed in the back of the closet, posthaste, an extremely comfortable chair, and some lightly sugary comestible would be better medicine for the general ills of the world and how they reflect upon your sweet soul.
Still others may argue a good film, one that will make you cry, laugh, feel vaguely nauseous somewhere around the middle part, only to recover to go get some more chocolate-coated buttered popcorn, will suffice for airing out your troubles, or, if not troubles, just airing out.
Nothing, though, can compare to the light breeze off the countless Chinese restaurants, the flourescent lights along the streetway that manage not to make you look fat, now that you're outside, and not trying on clothes and wearing sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and other appropriately lumpy clothing and/or accessories, possibly capped off by a hat of some sort, and the steady stream of delightfully attractive traffic past your person, as you walk, unconcerned with your own level of lumpy attractiveness, very happy, indeed, to be alive, and witness to what surely would have been a company of French chambermaids in some Sterneian travellogue that happen now to populate (and make popular, too!) the streets that run outside your own window, and on to which you've taken the evening to wander, as either a remedy or a preventative measure.
Ah, and do you reach out your hand, cheekily putting it where theirs may be in some future gesture-made point they may come to make to their companions, or do you call out, hoping to gain some sort of attention, some sort of look, a conversation, a ------
note from the author of time: a novel:
While much has been publicised about my on-going feud with, yes, my nemesis, Alain de Botton, with whom it would be only natural that I have a feud, either on-going or not, I wish him no evil, and no harm, while we be wishing.
And I concede, for the moment, that he be winning, having been possibly more successful selling more copies of his novels and gaining the favour of the literary press with greater aplomb than I may have for the last few years. Quite a bit of the publicity surrounding our feud may just be regarding the fact that I've acted rather poorly in the part of nemesis for some time now.
However, I would like a moment to publicly declare that I wish him all the success in the world, and with my latest project hope to finally put the bugger where he belongs, right back in the midst of a bitter struggle with myself for your affections.
_the author.
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