It happened. The drive over the bridge to the marina, the sharpness of the wind, the smallness of the boat, the stolen afternoon with a borrowed sailor, circling Alcatraz. The island beckoning, teasing, taunting. Private boats not allowed. No interest in the physical reality of the stone prison shadowing the first view of the city on the hill: simply a quiet certainty of the fragility of life on an island surrounded by guards and miles of death threatening water. There is no escape from Alcatraz, but here, in a boat, circling the island, is the detachment of a borrowed afternoon.
reading Gaskell, "Cranford"
weather lilacs! lilacs! lilacs!