But it's quiet under the water in the second before you come up and hear your own breath and the splash of other swimmers. And the rhythm of it all is soothing. Strokeandbreathe, stroke. Stroke andbreathe. Stroke.
Except I don't think it's quiet that I want. I'd rather have the wail of some guitar, some serious crack of lightning instead of plink and drizzle. I want the clinking of wine glasses, banging of drums, pans in the kitchen, cooking with a lover, chanting or ranting.
Most of my damn post-its are still on my wall, I haven't yet sent my memoir back to my agent, the submissions I have out are like some cellphone call in a tunnel.
A friend said it's a myth that lighting doesn't strike twice in the same place and I said I'd stand out in a storm in an underwire bra. I'd buy some serious lingerie rightnowtoday but there's only CVS and Food Lion.