I've threaded my way through Beverly Hills, raced a Telsa, reaching up to 70 mph on Sunset. I zip through the construction by the 405 and find myself a spot in the parking garage. I wait for the tram and then ride up the mountain, looking at traffic on the 405, the Ocean beyond Santa Monica and Venice. I disembark. I'm early. I find a cafe table in the shade. At first I fuck around with my phone. Then I decide to be present.
I sit there. I breathe. I watch people taking pictures. (I stop myself from tweeting snarky comments.) I lean back in the chair, my feet propped up on another chair, close my eyes, arms behind my head, breathing. The breeze comes. Caressing my face, my hair, finding its way into my lungs through my nostrils. Utterly luxurious, pleasurable. I exhale. Only to inhale another magnificent breath, a part of the wind, which continues to caress my skin, tease my hair. I'm in heaven.
I am calm. Chemicals flood my brain. And then I feel it. The Happiness. With each breath it sustains and I revel in the momentary feeling.
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