From Shotgun Lovesongs

I got home from work just before seven, tossed my backpack onto the bed, slipped my running shoes out of their fabric cubby in my closet and headed out to make up for the miles I'd skipped this morning. Work was a little bit rough today so I forced my body to go harder than I normally would for the week's first run (I finished at a 6:35 pace) to ensure that I'd leave it all behind me. When I got back home I stretched more consciously than usual, first outside against the house and then inside on the living room rug using a foam roller, and after my body stopped buzzing I showered and ordered takeout from Squat & Gobble for myself and Greg, one of Bevan's best friends who's visiting from Maryland. Fifteen minutes later I walked one block to pick up our food and we ate it on Sidney's bedroom floor (it's a long story) before Greg and B peeled off to watch an episode of Empire in Christopher's room and I went to finish the final pages of Nickolas Butler's Shotgun Lovesongs, a beautifully simple story about four friends who grew up together in a small Midwestern town, in mine.

Because it's a little bit late and I don't really have anything more to say about this day, I'd like to share a passage that I marked in the book I just mentioned.

"The fiddle players rosined their bows, and the piano player lightly touched the keys, and the bass player made his big fat string talk in a deep, low voice, and then they exploded—and the music they played was like a giant bucket of water poured over a great tree, fully leaved, the notes dividing and dispersing themselves down, gradually growing smaller and smaller, joyously running, bouncing, flowing down, down, down from leaf to leaf as if racing one another. A one-child family suddenly multiplied a thousand, a million times over, each rivulet, each bead, each tear, a drop of sunlight and glee."