The Sublime

Traffic rolling by like primitive animation, the pages flipping past. Quicksilver clouds overhead, hands that will never know more than the fact that they are mated. Killing time with a cigarette would not be enough to quell my desire for another cigarette. Confluence of rivers, land like a thumbnail between, snowflakes effervescent as the mixture of sodas by the child who found everything but the one taste that mattered: every thing is both static and emotive. Individually, we draw the conclusion that morning is the time when sleep is most crucial—that netherworld where everything and nothing are possibly just beyond our reach like the meeting again of two friends as if for the first time.