the screen reflects in the window – white, and in the shadows behind, a moving figure little more than a shadow. a burst of noise, echoing from earlier in the evening – on the other side of some imaginary line, a place we pretend is the future or the past.
each minute a bit of time slices through us: each second, nanosecond, each turning of a single breath. now slices thin layers of itself, stacking the past with translucent memories, thoughts, self-concepts. reaching through a million dozen slivers, I see another person whom I was years ago.
an uneventful season, really, but thoughtful; sometimes I wonder if this is a resting time between wilder days.
the branches of the dark trees only resolve into actual shapes when thrown into contrast with the streetlights.