When I moved to Florida, I brought with me many assumptions. Endless summer, I guess. That it smelled like coconut oil and chlorine. That every day might include a pool, late afternoons with David Hockney's arcs and squiggles dancing in rectangles of aquamarine and cerulean blue:
(though this was California)
But life fits itself back into more familiar shapes, and there's just as much sitting in rooms, inside, at desks, in front of screens, as there was before, up north. Maybe more.