In reverse order: Saturday morning buildings, yesterday’s recording session with Paul, studio set up by the window, last flowers from Della and Michael. Small things have become big things.
Small things wait. You can live inside them. Cats sleep at your elbow, dog at your feet. It’s quiet. Songs come.
Big things are a carrot on a stick. You chase them. They make your stomach hurt. You can’t sleep. Big things are fast and hard to see. They don’t fit. They block out the sun. It’s better to remember them.
Small things accumulate. They’re yours. You mull them over, turn them in your hands.