I want to be like the kids with their plastic sleds, gliding down, all the way down the hill, then trudging their sleds & snowsuited bodies all the way back to the top. I want to be how they do this, for hours, till sunset, till some sensible someone has to come drag them away from the snow, the slope, the 3 . . . 2 . . . 1! of joy. I want to be the Anti-Sisyphus, in love with repetition, in love, in love.
