October 25, 2004

The Color of Trees

Away from the city, on the train to Connecticut, I notice that it is leaf-peeping season, and that I had forgotten its existence. I remember the smell of autumn as one of burning leaves, but I'm sure all that is different now, that the orange, red and yellow piles are now carted away by a truck emanating a less pleasant scent than the true odor of fall.

In Connecticut I was at a professional conference, where I barely had time to leave the hotel for a breath of honest air (the hotel being one where the windows don't open, and the air quality was questionable, oxygen seemingly an optional component). When I smoked, I always had to go outdoors for a cigarette, so I got more breathable air than most of the attendees. Now that I don't, I need to rethink how I pace myself, since it has suddenly dawned on me that perhaps I would have more energy if I gave my neurotransmitters the occasional rest from indoor air, something I never needed to consider when nicotine fired up my brain.


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