My perfect holiday would be me lying across the green grass with my favourite book on my chest. My new sunglasses shielding my eyes from the bright spring sun. People loitering around. Dogs running about with sticks in their mouths.
Maybe someone is sitting cross legged next to me, watching the ducks in that lake there. Maybe we'll talk for a little bit. Maybe not. People don't talk much in my perfect holiday.
I'd be bursting with complacency, with the fact that I'm a thousand miles away from home, sprawled on a park of some foreign country. No schedules, nowhere to go, none. Just mindless, reckless, jelly like calmness.
The color of my dress, the sound of the distant laughing, the smell of the spring grass, the weight of the sun's warmth, they all come together, carefully sewed on to form this scene.
Somewhere where they don't really speak proper English, and when they do they'll do it with a thick accent so I'm constantly reminded of the state of total isolation that I'm in, something that's both comforting and alarming.
Sigh. One day my sweet,
one sunny spring day.
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