042603cryIt always starts small, I think. Life, war, a good story. Not sure what I’m think­ing exactly, but its there, like some­one in your bed or a wart on your fin­ger or the smell of Spring.

We’ve got all the time we need, and we’re run­ning out of time. That’s what I’m try­ing to say, maybe. The infi­nite has been duly noted and is presently secure in a ware­house out­side Pitts­burgh. We start off small, a wel­come mis­take maybe, or the result of hard hard work. We find out what our neigh­bors smell like, what blood tastes like, what anger feels like when its snapped and slapped against our skin. We learn the craft of deceit. We grow accus­tomed to the thin dry air of dejec­tion. Some­one else has pointed out the idea of a hori­zon, and ever since then we’ve fol­lowed it like a gilded carrot.

Work­ing hard. I’d pre­fer not to. Point­ing out the obvious.