A blackboard on which two words are written: "Gateway" and "Orientation." Backing out of a long tunnel of sleep, a premonition comes which, upon checking email later, turns out to be correct. The thing about grass is, it keeps on growing after you've cut it. "That's a lot of zero's."
Within arm's reach a white crystal bearing many scars, sunglasses that pinch my ears, a wash cloth, a purple ink pen, a dead dandelion, tomato seedlings, Chrisoula's business phone, artwork by Fionnghuala.
Visible out the window: lilac, a canoe, a car that hasn't gone anywhere in over a year, an open door.
What if I wrote the twenty sentences over the course of the day instead of just in one sitting? What if I took them seriously? Who says I don't?
I woke after the sun had risen - was well up in fact - and the light disoriented me. Yet I still had well over an hour to work before anyone else got up. At about 1:30, I stood by the bathroom window looking out into the back yard thinking, in spring and summer, the darkness is different. I want to say it's lighter but the truth is it's actually full. Of what? I can't say exactly. But it's lush, it shimmers, it has that quality. It's open somehow, or it contains barely some desire that would consume you.
The chink of spoons against cereal bowls returns me where. Another cup of coffee, weekend chores, my family. Euphoria beckons but I've already landed, here, in the twentieth sentence.
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