Soft, slanted, warm, touching everything with white gold, the sun turns the afternoon into a fairytale. I walk through a forest that seems drawn straight from a fantasy. I sit staring past my desk to the window in the time of quiet and books and half-drunk tea. I tread on the shadows stretched out long and luxurious across the pavement. I lie on a blanket in a park filled with friends and laughter and the smell of grass. The afternoon light weaves these stories together, strands in a tapestry of mornings and midmornings and noons and afternoons and evenings and nights and unearthly hours – my life. In the afternoon light I stop to notice the passing of the time, and I remember that I am living.