My Tables Are Gone

Most mornings I arrive outside my office by 6:30 am where I sit and write at the covered tables on the grounds of the Daley Center. They are up only part of the year for the weather in Chicago turns bitter. This morning the workers shooed me away so they could dismantle and put them away for the Winter.

My early morning writing, the words I bleed onto the paper, are fundamental to my growth, to my sanity. For the next 6 months, I will need to park my ass in a coffee shop each morning instead of enjoying the sounds and sites of the early morning city.

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