Gemotions

A soft breeze drifted through the open window, carrying with it the scent of freshly cut grass. He was sprawled on the couch, legs stretched out, a worn copy of "Leaves of Grass" open on his chest. Sunlight bathed the living room in a honeyed glow. The world outside, the city's frantic pulse, seemed miles away.

The landlord’s notice, a crisp white rectangle, lay on the coffee table. "Condo Conversion," it declared in a harsh, unsympathetic font. He picked it up with a sigh, the paper crinkling slightly in his hand. His gaze drifted back to the poem, to the comforting words of Whitman. The feeling of stillness he held onto tightened.

He stood and walked towards the open window. It was going to be a beautiful day.