I'm a moper, a mental joker, a cold-weather toker who ruminates on a single thing for a day, a week, a month, cocooned in lands of ice & snow both real & imagined, the only synaptic interruptions being eat some food, dude, go to sleep, jackass, ain't gonna happen, moron.
But once upon a decade or less, heat meets feeling good -- no, not good, nor contentment, nor a simple abdication of responsibility, nor some Kerouackian booze n' asphalt-to-nowhere quackery, I don't know what it is since I'm not very California Zen -- and it's gonna be 80° in the shade today, and I'm feeling that whatever, that thing, dreaming about a sanctum without boundaries, windows down, Van Halen blaring, waxing idiotic about fuckeries & joys poetick & sundry, voices ever louder to contend with the wail & squeal.
Take advantage of Venus transiting the sun? Oh sure, I've got oodles of collectively-bargained noodling time, but I've also got a rusting gas-guzzler unfit for highway starring, & the notion of three hour roundtripping whilst I talk to me myself & I doesn't fill yours truly with lusty glee, plus Doodily might be pissed at having to trudge home from evening class, so I'm sticking myself inside work's allotted sixty minutes box of legal slack, propositioned by an evening of hello mirror universe me before I watch game two of the World Series.
If not for tunes & a semi-functioning imagination.