Staring down the clock to divine meaning from the intersection of clock hands. Hands on top of hands, layers upon layers of intimacy stacked like a half-shuffled deck of cards.

Is it any wonder why we personify Time?

But why is Time a father? Time has never given us pause. Time is a mother, time is intimate and forgiving. Time is the person who shuts our eyes when we die.

Enough about death. I have written enough about it to forget that I am quite a ways from dying. Statistically, anyway.

In order to avoid jinxing myself I allow for every possibility of a future to be co-existing with one another.

In a sense, you see this everywhere. The bundle of weeds outside in the yard, all these wrinkled leaves and vines from different plants altogether.

Those, too, are hands. Hands all over the grass, hands digging deep into the soil, hands reaching out to the sun.

I am typing this in a place devoid of all of that. This is a place where hands are only planted on keyboards, pluck pluck plucking away at some hidden fruit of knowledge.

I give myself pause. My wrist hurts. I fell on it a few years ago and every now and then it aches to remind me that I was once younger and foolisher.

To have ran in the rain, to have ran without fear of falling.

Now I am a more cautious thing. I trim the lawn, I keep my hair uniform. I stifle the outburst of weeds from my head, from my cock.

I seem to be obsessed with being mundane. That is not a surprise, that is a coping mechanism.

To bury all desire is to be safe from all of it, until eventually someone comes to dig it all up. That’s how it is with everything, really – always someone asking to free what was not theirs.

Never theirs. But who am I to say that I have ever owned a desire?

I have never been able to prove anything to anyone.

Has anyone, ever?


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