Strange melancholy morning, filled with fossil reading, Salinger, and a pervading sense of unease.
As I was walking from work yesterday, near nine with light still in the sky, I found myself opening and closing my book repeatedly, nervously, next to Abel. The temperature shift around six, from cool rain to stinging sun, was destabilizing. I felt fragile.
Here was a path I had taken before and yet it’s quiet shuttered windows all seemed unfamiliar. Behind those white lids were dark octopus lipped people, rolling around on plastic lace, and listening to music that would rhyme with a leaky tap.
The seesaw carrying two children had springs that swung too violently. I hated the sound of my shoes.
But now, looking back, I hear the false chime of birds from my alarm. It’s time to leave, isn’t it?
