I hadn’t, or couldn’t have imagined I’d do that ever again. Some empty Bronx-bound 4 & 5, littered with wads of club flyers and Thai takeout tear-offs — only hints that this very train was occupied a few hours earlier by nighttiming and other absurdity. This time too, I had with me equipment though not a guitar this late, and that same stirring. The same knowledge that the fit wasn’t quite correct, but that there were other fits left to be explored, a certain something attached to not exploring those things brimmed and spilling with opportunity.
Time, or whatever redefinition of it today appends, shows that a past want is neither it or what brings one back to a Thing or a Time, but rather the certain ways the pieces didn’t quite Seal — the Mortar not quite dry — and how it needs simply a consistent intake of oxygen to complete the Process which makes that which was once a malleable paste into a binder; resilient, and a source of fortification for those things with which it comes into contact.
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