Pastel chalk dust and dark chocolate coat my unshaven legs. I plant my bare feet into the grass, teeming with dandelions and clover. A few yards to my right there is a line seperating my building and the one next door. Their lawn is freshly mowed, blades erect as soldiers, uniform in height. I like my grass wild. I like to feel the dirt on the brave soles of my feet. 

I want to practice this more: declaring what I like and meaning it. Slowly paring things down until what I like is all that I see.