The thing about halves is that they’re not always half of the thing.
How often, for instance, do we talk about the “big half” and the “little half?”
So, if you put together the first part of one week and the last part of another, you’re able to make a whole, and if you equivocate sufficiently, you can crawl through that hole and see yourself, at one point, commemorating a local celebrity passing and at another, rounding out the evening pretty much where it all began more than a decade earlier, give or take a couple months.
The eyes have seen so much of this before which is why the destination bar is predictable even if its name eludes you for a good part of the way along the lake. Language leaves us before spatial ability, apparently, but you can be reasonably confident that if you continue pedaling, eventually the verbal and the visual will stitch together and what’s sort of amazing after all this time—and just a little bit frightening, too—is that when it’s all over and done with, the bicycle somehow brings you safely home, even in the absence of perfect recollection the morning after.
Initially, the moon has yet to rise, and subsequently, it’s so new that it doesn’t at all, but in both cases, its influence abides, pulling you all the way from the north and the east to the south and the west and most of the way in-between: those gaps are gapped and the stops stopped at; insides stay inside and the outside remains on the outside.
Details run together, so that one week’s climb is the next one’s descent; you’ve heard that song before but not this rendition. And after all, as long as a person can dance to it a little, then does it really matter when it happened?
Two bodies warm themselves by the fire, both prone, one for old time’s sake and one for now.
How often, for instance, do we talk about the “big half” and the “little half?”
So, if you put together the first part of one week and the last part of another, you’re able to make a whole, and if you equivocate sufficiently, you can crawl through that hole and see yourself, at one point, commemorating a local celebrity passing and at another, rounding out the evening pretty much where it all began more than a decade earlier, give or take a couple months.
The eyes have seen so much of this before which is why the destination bar is predictable even if its name eludes you for a good part of the way along the lake. Language leaves us before spatial ability, apparently, but you can be reasonably confident that if you continue pedaling, eventually the verbal and the visual will stitch together and what’s sort of amazing after all this time—and just a little bit frightening, too—is that when it’s all over and done with, the bicycle somehow brings you safely home, even in the absence of perfect recollection the morning after.
Initially, the moon has yet to rise, and subsequently, it’s so new that it doesn’t at all, but in both cases, its influence abides, pulling you all the way from the north and the east to the south and the west and most of the way in-between: those gaps are gapped and the stops stopped at; insides stay inside and the outside remains on the outside.
Details run together, so that one week’s climb is the next one’s descent; you’ve heard that song before but not this rendition. And after all, as long as a person can dance to it a little, then does it really matter when it happened?
Two bodies warm themselves by the fire, both prone, one for old time’s sake and one for now.
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