Sundries

If I were to buy the house, I'd want part of the deal to be that every minute of every day since its foundation was laid, to be experientially included in the contract. Walking up and down the street I'd keep tabs on the progress, stopping in the shops and having my coffee while inhaling the roasting hops from the nearby brewery. I'd find a a shady spot to watch the workmen laying the bricks, leveling the window frames. Soon the house would be ready and I'd buy a rocking chair so I could sit in the front window and watch the world go by. When it got dark the lantern light would glow yellow and gold on the newly laid floor, birds making soft sounds from their roosts as they ready for sleep.

Of course I'd have to step back into the present, drive my car to work. Earn a paycheck. But any chance I'd get I'd sit right down in that chair by the front window, and spy on the 1930's, the 1950's, 1966. What fun it would be to take the day off on my actual birthday. I'd sit there all day, except to run down the street, buy a Coca Cola in a little green bottle for old times sake,  shake salted peanuts into it, and drink it down, icy cold. And I'd go get the newspaper and check the prices at the grocery stores. Read who got married, who died. Work the crossword puzzle.

Really, I think this idea is so good that I should run at least this part of the world: Real estate.