It 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.
