The sun shines brightly outside, though the wind is a bit nippy at times. If I sit still enough on a park bench or on the lawn, the sun beats down on me and warms me to the point of deception; I feel as if summer encircles me and it’s time again to visit Eden Park. The past couple of days have teased me so viciously, taunting me with a world lit up by the genial sky and grass that slowly grows greener and greener, but the moment I step outside the brisk air rejects my desperate attempts to fraternize and I am forced back indoors by my desire for placid comfort. From my living room window I examine the world outside of the little brick box of my father’s house, and I scowl at its pointless beguilement. I know better than to feel invited by the festive rays of that brutish, crude sun that refuses to lend ear to hospitality, propriety, or social pressures. If this were an epoch of decency the sun would swell with comfortable warmth, curl her hair, press her dress and invite me outside for cucumber sandwiches and gunpowder tea. Instead she mulls about outside in the most tasteless of manners, refusing to heat the world to sun-dress weather. I sit in front of my living room window and scowl a self righteous, pious scowl. Despite the many grievances the sun has provided me, I’ve decided against spreading ignominious rumors about her at the beauty parlor involving the pool boy and a hair barrette. Cucumber sandwiches or not, my mother raised me right.