I’d say we’re about three balls
below the need for a memory.
The illusion of lights in the dis
tance are boring. Depressing,
even. You can’t take snapshots
of those. Squirming around, as
I do, under the covers, singularly,
I might add, I try my damnedest
to remember a time that was off
the beaten path, even barely. This
rings a bell. I used to hike in real
places with long drawn-out vistas
and moss and terrain so intense
the fog couldn’t scribble it away.
