here the future is immediate, the future is coming with every hour– there is no feeling to the future, only onwards, down the stairs in a sweater and whatever i can grab between under the covers and out the door, between scrolling and not thinking and needing suddenly to have a plan– on the bus, in that back and forth space– looking out the wide windows– seeing only storefronts and houses with no extra spacing– just before getting off at the next stop– waiting where everyone else is waiting– headphones in, backpacks strapped, ready– trying to remember where it is i wanted to go– wondering whether the people here are also simply passing– through shops– through the office– in and out of the car– each other– and then through the time– made and undone– while everything inside stays undefined and everything outside remains concrete and colossal– how there is true ease in passing quickly, lightly, without thought– but sometimes i am under the covers again, scrolling– inevitably, i am running all the way to the edge, letting the bowling ball slip on a night with friends– watching it roll all the way to the gutter, leaving every pin untouched– watching the machine take the pins up then back down onto the same spot– wanting exactly that– for nothing to move at all– receiving not a single point– but in the next moment, taking my second turn– looking all over again for the idea, the meaningless idea, the ultimate idea– of seeing a thread drawn confidently into time, of being many hours into the day and feeling like nothing in me has run out– of knocking it all down– but when the game ends, i return to the beginning– not yet able to take that first independent step– i let the remaining hours pass, conjuring small profundities if only to finish the night’s order of fries–
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