Eternal Recurrence

by practicalspactical

And so we return to the chair and the page, and the words are the words we use to build our monuments, our sand castles, our fossils, our bones; that’s the purpose of writing isn’t it? And I’m not sure how you’re supposed to write if the line length is this long; I guess just think, and try to extrude it out.

 Just lost something, but I’ll write it again.

Let’s start with an excercise, some jumping jacks, up and down, in and out. That should do it.

The Washington DC Metro, 3:30 in the afternoon, between GWU-Foggy Bottom and Rosslyn. We stop at Rosslyn and (how many) people get on the train. There is a man in a black t-shirt, with a redhair buzzcut and a redhaired wife. She is fatter than he his, uglier, dumber maybe, mistrusting, confused. There is a black boy next to me, maybe my age, dressed well, in nice pants and a button-down shirt, standing too close to me. A tall man, older, maybe 55, with white hair, but still well preserved, in a suit. Three buddhist monks in yellow robes, not knowing what they were in for.

These are the people in the subway. Each one has his story.