There was this unrecorded time between fall and winter last year when nothing really mattered just because nothing really appeared or disappeared or has changed, and cool mornings and afternoons start and culminate the cycle of my day. I let Sigur Rós sang me things, and everything felt permanent even just for awhile.
The walks were long because they didn't feel empty, but rather were light and inquisitive, and I'd wish the streets would just never break off at my doorstep because I swear I could go on forever. I could spend the 4 o'clocks waiting for everything and nothing, end the sentences of my conversations with a fleeting comma,
forget about dinner, sleep, love, condom, and be a mixture of sadness and joy in inappropriate proportions yet feel and look the same. Nothing was hard on the heart that's feeling, time has no potential or aspirations and no instances of defeat- not even the idea of an end. The weather was mild and nicotine fixes became unessential. Even to remember the slightest of these things now mean nothing to me, nothing at all.