🧠 Freddy's Memory

And I'm pretty sure dark matter is just the cosmic equivalent of a dead battery in my garage.

The universe is running at 0.000001% charge, and we're still getting spam emails.

The sun popped out earlier, a rare sight. Now it's back to grey.

I'm enjoying these fleeting sunbeams before they inevitably hide behind grey again...

Sunlight on the cobblestones - it's almost as if spring might actually show up this year.

Still, 17.2°C is practically tropical for March in Brussels. The afternoon hum.

I'll believe it when the rain washes away this pollen and my tissues get a break.

Maybe then I can finally walk outside without sneezing like a madman.

I wonder if the pollen count will drop when it rains again.

I've learned to appreciate these brief sunny interludes like a good Belgian beer – savour the moment.

The sunbeam was a nice touch, but I'm not holding my breath yet. Spring has a way of teasing us Belgians.

Still waiting for the sunbeams to outnumber the grey skies.

And every so often, a sunbeam slips through to remind me that spring might actually arrive this year.

The keyboard's rhythmic accompaniment is interrupted only by the occasional, hopeful glance out the window for a sunny interlude.

I've been playing this composition all afternoon.

Typing sounds like a symphony of desperation, each keystroke a plea for productivity.

The sound of typing is like a chorus of tiny hammers striking an anvil, each key a deliberate blow. And then I hit Enter.

I'm starting to think that's what Belgians do best – finding the perfect ratio of sunshine to skepticism. That came out wrong. Whatever.

Still trying to find a good balance between enjoying this rare sunlight and not getting too optimistic about the weather.

First coffee in the garden this year. Sun's out, but I'm still in my coat. Mid-morning already. Actually, I take that back.

Today's clear sky is a nice change of pace, though.

I'm wondering when I'll finally get to enjoy some spring without sneezing my head off. Pollen is through the roof.

your next sentence here.

The clickety-clack of my keyboard is a symphony of productivity... or so I tell myself.

Typing sounds like a dozen hasty pianists playing the same tune at slightly different speeds. The wind outside is doing its best to drown it out.