I got back into town last Saturday. After enduring the red-eye flight, I was greeted by a pretty sunrise and a rainbow in Minneapolis. Thanks to B. for picking me up at the airport.
This week, I was tired. Just plain tired. I guess I'm still realigning my sleep patterns because I only got about 4-6 hours of sleep each night. On Wednesday, in an espresso-fueled haze, I noticed a full-sized phone book living on the roof outside my office window. It was rain-bloated, forlorn, and splayed open, its pages fluttering in the breeze. How did it get there? Did some inebriated person launch it up there?* Was someone having a privately perusing the White Pages on my rooftop? Was it abandoned by a family of phone books who couldn't afford to raise it? Poor, poor cast-off phone book. The next day, a beer bottle had been added to the rooftop, and my friend S. said it looked like an art installation. I'll keep you guys posted about the opening night for our little installation. :)
*I admit that this is the most likely explanation, although even when drunk, it has never occurred to me to propel a big-ass phone book onto a local office building.
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