So yesterday after work I went for a walk around a lake bordering the Hilton at which I was staying. I found an idyllic spot of pristine lawn, with a beautiful tree to sit against. I sat there, under the gentle sun and the fair breeze, and reached for my bag, so I could whip out my laptop and do some writing. But I paused, overcome by the Perfect Stillness of the moment. Some ducks from the lake approached and sat beside me. Alright, I thought, giving in, this is just too perfect--I don't like taking pictures and hadn't packed a camera, but this seemed like the textbook time for a snapshot. So I whipped out my cellphone, positioned the camera lens--
And just then an intricate system of high-velocity sprinklers shot off with an industrial sound, jettisoning freezing water in all kinds of directions, including those which I'd chosen to inhabit while resting against the tree. Getting drenched did little to ruin the good mood, though it did cause a change of clothes and a more acute awareness of suspicious declivities in unused lawn going forward.
I stayed at room 279, by the way. I mention this so that fifty years from now, when scholars attempt to reconstruct my travels and re-enact the most Transcendent moments of my journey along this mortal coil, it'll be a little easier for them to emulate the flapping motion of my arms and my dripping self as I moved from the lake to the entrance opposite the High-Rise entrance and all the way up to the room next to the room with the loud neighbors (277), whose door was left open by them (an invitation to trouble?) and who scattered empty and dirty toppled wine glasses on the carpet outside their door (an invitation to jealousy?).