Yesterday: the sky a pristine Crayola sky blue and the temperature so perfect that the idea of weather just slipped into the background. We drove for miles and miles with the wind gushing all around, uprooting one spirally-curled hair from our heads at a time and whisking them all far, far away.

There were feta and spinach omelettes and dungeon record shops; shared glances followed by uproarious laughter. We learned of Randy Newman's dark side and more than we ever wanted to know about German cinema. And listened to the horns of the jealous motorists unable to contain their envy of our perfect day.

When did you last have a perfect day?

Todd and I have been having those State of the Union type talks where we try to define the type of friends we are and are not.

I think it all started with two things: my ability to get him to boy bash with me on Friday morning and my request to be invited to his bachelor party.

We've decided that it's definitely a brother-sister thing. Consider how he knows exactly how to annoy me, crawl under my skin... and not in a hidden-sexual-tension kind of way, but in a just plain annoying way. Or how I actually depend on him to dispense random advice, like where to take my car to have the dent in the hood removed.

And then there is the whole list of things that we won't talk about. Drawing lines is something that brother-sister friends do best.

I didn't really want to finish Tomcat in Love last night, in the same way that I hate for amazing conversations to run up against the end of the evening. I got to the last ten pages and turned back, rereading the bits and pieces that reached in and moved things around inside of me. I wanted simply to linger.

I enjoy many books, to be sure, but rarely find one that whispers to me, even when it's tucked away in my bag, even when I can't sort out enough time to give it proper attention. So rare is this story that actually breathes, leans in, ridicules me, speaks to me in hushed, conspiratorial tones.

Consuming.

Wouldn't you want to linger there, too?

As Julia and I made plans for dinner tomorrow night, she warned me that we wouldn't be out late because I needed to work. I told her it didn't matter when I got home and to bed, since I always wake up late anyway. She said, "Not that work... I'm talking about your writing. You need to get home to write."

Simple, but it frames my mind in the right way. Like my new writing table and the candlelight and Dean's mood music. With a writing space this quirky, this comfortable, I have no excuses for not producing something memorable.

And last night on the drive back to Boston, Sawmill Parkway acted as my muse. Ideas suddenly came to me via the wind-blown trees and inky black night, and I repeated them over and over... a mantra... praying for way to keep them from slipping through the cracks.

Simply inspired.