•149/ At the bus terminal, she waits for a late ride— undoubtedly stalled due to the heavy downpour, the unexpected rainfall drowning out major roads all across town with flashfloods, over flowing congested gutters, and stalled vehicles abandoned on the sides of the road— but her impatience grows, crests over with a bitterness, a vague hopelessness at feelings of being stranded in late twilight, that is, until the young runaway sitting nearby hands over a large maple leaf, blood red, the imprint of a hand really, his blonde hands smaller than the leaf, but he offers it out, then disappears inside the terminal, avoiding her questioning glance.
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Unused words: bloodshed, Alzheimer’s, flycatcher and goduit, grout
• As with typical late summer, now the night creeps in quickly, no longer the blur of a delay or casual hesitancy to drown out the landscape— one can close his eyes and daylight pulses into twilight. Blink again, evening emerges. Time motions under its own control.