I rarely eat lunch alone, but when I do I write in my journal. An excerpt:
I really love these grey wet spring days. Especially before all the leaves and flowers come out: vernal sweetness with the bleak stark verity of winter–the world’s denuded skeletons stand still proudly, their limbs and digits swaying in a warm breeze. Smelling all of the promise of late March sensible only in mid-February. You know exactly what I mean. You do.