I wonder sometimes when the afternoon ends and the evening begins. I wait anxiously for the beforenight, worried because things often get odd in the evening, which seems a bit ironic. A time of day called "evening" shouldn't be a time for getting odd but a time for getting even, though I've never been big on revenge. Revenge is too outwardly focused for me, requiring that I remember someone else and what they did to me. I prefer to focus on things in my head, things that never happened to anyone, things forgiven. So, in the evening, when the horizon slides up over the relatively stationary sun, I stand still and am moved by the permanence of cyclical change, bracing myself for participation in the great sidereal dance. I'd invite you to dance with me, but I'm bashful and awkward in such affairs. They are an invitation to brief joy and long pain, to odd evenings spent plotting revenge.
Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Are you?
Later. Love.
