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.