Little Big / Early Late
On the white-painted cinderblock wall: Little Big. In black magic marker. I thought of that beautiful book. The permutations.
At this point, I should be sleeping. Or waking…
I had half a meal at some indeterminate time before this. I am not ready for the other half just yet. When I came home, a few stretched moments ago, the snow crunched thin and gritty under my shoes. (There are no curves in the air now — just crystal edges.) I’m sitting here chewing gum and drinking water that has a distant icy taste. My shoes are off, but I am not completely ready for bed — or for a day. I’m in-between.
My blinds are closed. It was dark when I came in. I am not sure what is like out there now. I’m thinking of the words, and the book, and how it feels to be in-between and both.
The day feels late to me now, though I know it is early.