Seven thirty five.

Though it’s foggy this morning, the daylight is bright like the springtime: a strange anachronism. Equally strange was noticing that the little green espresso shack was closed today; the lights unlit and the windows closed, and of course no cars lined up. Every day that I pass it on the corner of N Park and Maxwell Road it’s been open for business, without fail… So I walked the misty streets while the streetlights were still on, whether needfully or not in the vernal brightness. At the store, D— came in as I scanned the sandwiches in the deli cooler. His job is a kind of QC overseer. A year ago, someone said this was a joke, and not to even get her started on it. I noted his fancy red sports car when I left through the front door… Thinking of a year ago reminds me of Richard Wright and his brainchild Bigger, particularly his dream of being an aviator before his life went awry. Probably he only wanted to be free and to liberate others like himself. I’ll never forget the scene with the skywriter making a sign in the blue:



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