At the quiet hour of this quiet night, I pop outside the suite and I breathe. I fancy that I see my breath, but it’s not nearly cold enough. I stare through the lattice of wood that doesn’t do anything for the stairwell – I stare at the Campanile, good Father Sather, our great guardian. And I wish to see the view from the top by night.
It’s late and I have lots of work tomorrow. I’m quite proud of some of the Python I’ve written tonight.