Yesterday, a good time was had. (That's an example of a sentence in passive voice.) Brought my textbook with me to guard my towel while Goran and I went swimming in Sasamat Lake (we scored the perfect spot on the beach + the beach wasn't as packed as last time), then successfully executed a midnight re-up on salad greens, beans and snowpeas -- all harvested from my community garden plot under cover of darkness and 15-feet tall sunflower plants. I am surprised at how fast everything has flourished in that garden... so many peas and beans and greens ready to eat! On the walk over, I hadn't planned on harvesting anything. I'd intended to just take a peek at the plot, but when we found the plot I couldn't help but stand and admire nature's bounty: handfuls of beans weighing down stems, resting on chard gone to seed; snowpeas hiding in the bolting arugula; oxheart carrots stunted by the shade of a mizuna forest. Ah, the dynamics of a young city. Co-operation gone wrong. But the result that anything survived at all is still admirable, and admiration beats taking action. Especially when the action is to shove as many green beans into our shorts' pockets as possible without arousing the suspicions, or admiration, of people who'd notice. 20 minutes later, we were walking down Davie at midnight with dirty hands, pockets bulging, trailing pieces of peas and chard, hands full of plants gone to seed, stepping in time to the bass beats emanating from nightclubs, not making eye contact with other walkers, trying to keep a straight face in the face of pulling off a ridiculous image. All perfectly normal for the time and place.

This made much more sense to me before I wrote it out.