Right now it seems to me that I am living like Sugar, who is lying off to my left in a patch of grass (I dare not call it a lawn because it seems much wilder than that, and far more lovely for all the dandelions about, and the grass most places being eight to ten inches high, but more lush and more beautiful than any lawn I have ever seen on anyone’s property who so bothers himself with keeping one), basking in the warm sunlight, as still as a statue, eyes mere slits. And I, on this bench-swing, doing the exact same thing, only reflecting on the sameness of our lives.