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Tuesday: I was walking through the lull and mud in the morning. By, along, across the chill and icy road. The daylight was barely bottled up in a sweet, translucent yellow. I walked slow, step and strut, hardly conscience of my heartbeat. No cars passed on by or before. I made my way up and down, around and back and through myself. The grass swayed. The flowers bloom. And the field is happy with all its wiggle room. I stretch, my neck and back and arms and legs. Wiggle my fingers and toes.

I consider the ‘I’ that I am.

And, because I have a few extra minutes to myself, I sit on a park bench. Just so… I bathe in the sunlight. And I breathe it in. It fills my lungs just as well as the lazy air about me. It uncoils around me and lengthens as I exhale it in a happy sigh. I was all alone in the mile or so of expanse. So I hummed a tune that will never really exist.


Wednesday: It was half past eight and I was on the road. Sitting halfway down the bus with nobody beside me or in the seats around mine. The sun was barely up with its dandelion glow. I filled my ears with music to drown out all the noises and watched the world go by. It passed with fields of cut down corn, wheat, rusted houses and long groups of skinny trees.

I play pretend.

I pretend that I am the only one on the bus. And the bus will never stop. I pretend that I’m going to a place far away and new and I will make a utopia out of it. I pretend that when I get off of the bus that somebody will be there waiting for me. They’ll read my thoughts. And say, “What should we call our utopia?”





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