Backwards

Surprisingly, there’s always something you haven’t yet seen, like a blinking cursor that’s always been there, although staying closer to the water in order to ride boats of a spring night on which the sky was three different versions of wonderful (and those were only the ones remarked at and remembered) before ending up at a pond and a bridge in an impressively dangerous public space without a single trash can as befitting something that isn’t a park, but rather a facility, where self-lighting charcoal plays the role of a fire, is plenty, especially when you take into account that not even a hint of rain was dropped and shirtsleeves and a vest were sufficient all evening long; that’s what you ask for, and the fact that it was the most familiar of routes run backwards and under quite different mental conditions than those underway at 8:30 in the morning only makes it that much more satisfying.

Enough really can be enough when you’re given opportunities like this to notice it’s all too much, just like this, less than usual but still more than expected and certainly deserved.