a long ago memory crept up to bring this back home:

Peggy-o
As we marched down to Faneri-o As we marched down to Faneri-o Our captain fell n love with a lady like a dove And they called her name, pretty Peggy-o Come a runnin' down the stairs, pretty Peggy-o Come a runnin' down the stairs, pretty Peggy-o Come a runnin' down the stairs, combin' back your yellow hair You're the prettiest little girl I've ever seen-o In a carriage you will ride, pretty Peggy-o In a carriage you will ride, pretty Peggy-o In a carriage you will ride, with your true love by your side As far as any maiden in the ar-e-o What will your mother say, pretry Peggy-o? What will your mother say, pretty Peggy-o? What will your mother say, when she finds you've gone away To places far and strange to Faneri-o? If ever I return, pretty Peggy-o If ever I return, pretty Peggy-o If ever I return, all your cities I will burn Destroying all the ladies in the ar-e-o Destroying all the ladies in the ar-e-o
Simon and Garfunkel

my boredom is orchestrated by untailored conversations about subjects i rapidly lose interest in and the irascible in me that scatters everything into extended righteous tantrums. the summer here sits, rises and blows through my boredom splashing my face now and then with swift bits of excitement and things-to-do that almost don't last long enough. and boredom clings to that snappish tether that barely is, especially when it comes to people and sights of the daily variety. i am pregnant with waiting to go home, everything is a stretch, every gesture is vacantly stagnant and the moment seems farther pushed, the closer it appears miraged.

so my boredom publishes itself, always uncontrollably in every contuor of this ambience that could never attain the other.