Seven forty.

I’m in my living room, a place of blue carpet no longer cluttered with boxes of books and stuff, thanks to my PCA and the agencies that made everything possible. I don’t know if there’s an Agency beyond the human ones; does it matter? Like every morning, I walked around the corner to the convenience store to get the daily groceries for me and my dog. The early hour explains why I met with hardly anyone. My life makes a pretty dull story, but I’m actually thankful for the humdrum of my existence. Things can always be worse than they are. I tell Aesop it’s 15 minutes to his breakfast and he understands and accepts. We’re having a very mild summer, mercifully. Sometimes good fortune seems to be dumped in my lap, and when this happens, I try to appreciate what I have. Kicking down the sidewalk of Maxwell Road, I heard a song by Yes called “Looking Around.” And for a timeless interval I knew the essence of the music, a suspension like satori, a nirvana that didn’t have to end.


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