Sunshine, hay, where are you today?

About twelve paces from my desk through some smokey glass is one of Austin's most breathtaking views. Five stories up, perched on the edge of a steep, steep hill overlooking Town Lake and the rust red 360 bridge, below which tiny white speed boats and their foamy tails laze over the deep blue waters, sits my desk in a black and steel building. Across the lake and hills towards the east is a glimpse of downtown that glows at night like a Alexandrian nimbus, a soft halo that shows where town meets country. Dotted in between are mansions covered in the local burnt orange sheet rock and tasetful Spanish roof tiles. Sometimes I can see deer in our courtyards, even in the daytime, munching on the lovely flowers that brown maintenance crews work on every-other day. There is a sea of trees that churn in the wind between the canyons, and it smells like heaven whenever it rains.




Stupid Texas, how deceptive you are sometimes, filling people with lovely old memories of times long, long ago and only seeming that charming when fun people stop by for a visit. Or on a quiet afternoon when the phones are silent, the email queues are empty, and there is no more hot water to make tea with.