Forever.

He knew that once he got it he had it. In an act of self-preserverance, the decision was to not clean up the shards of glass. New day was striking individual pieces if as the grains were invested in such physiologic manners. The ink had run out many minutes before. No matter. Time was nether a constraint.

He had read Faulkner. Dabbled in Pynchon. Fantasized Wallace. Drank in Burroughs deeply. Yet, no ordinary person would sense the envelopment of hysteria bulging at its precipices. The sheet was like a cat at its owner's finest leather. The stubble was apparent and the odor overtly keen.

But he had finally made it. Through hours of erasing the very notion of it. A clock was no longer. Time was more like language than ever before--the most beautiful tongue he had ever heard.

I need a pickmeup.

Not of the effervescent bottle.

Nothing inheritable.

I've ingested too much already.

When I was a child, I planted the apex of my nose on our car's backseat window. Peering, I wasted eyesight--instead, my mind strove to achieve greatness. Downside Hill was the name of the band that I imagined would tear up each subsequent coast with an eagerness to please its fans while staying true to its nature. I saw birds. There were cars stranded on burning asphalt. But I dreamt past them.

In a blur of December ragweed.

I found that somehow and then lost it. But did I ever dream up newness? Did I find a new apparel?

I now see birds that float effortlessly above the the current and sing to the wind without the movement of a single feather while basking in the weather it is given while I lay on my back on my burning asphalt. I'd like that.

Foam

I think I will buy an espresso machine. The image of roasting and foam and packing grinds makes my mouth tingle.

But of course--I say this. Knowing fine as grain that the process will edge my nerves. The constraint of time.

But things look up. I can smell again. I can see what is ahead. And though there is that tinge of bleakness, ugly, I can scrape the clay off and revel in something else. Some American, dark, and strong.

Maybe I will get that espresso machine.

Currents

"Let me correct this," the boy said his son.

"There have been mistakes made."

The outside was bright and blue. The temperature that of which chilled you if in the current of its shadows.

It had been raining for three days straight.

Those around him talked about volunteering, introducing so-and-so as their roommate.

The boy looked at his son with passion. He loved him very much.

The baby had tussled, stringy hair. It reminded him of his grandfather's.

It was brighter outside than he could remember.

"Something you will learn is that time is a piece of cake. but it is that sloughing of the wait which hurts the most."

-----

In that moment he realized what he had in front of him. It was his moment.

He looked outside and dreamed of that current.

"Life is good, man."