There are similarities between thoughts that ramble from one to the next, and thoughts that appear in random, disjointed file. But they are not the same thing. The 2002 penny that is taped to the rim of my desk is the same penny that was given to me by my nephew after he discoved it abandoned on the sidewalk, dropped by the pedestrian, who picked it up as change when he bought cold medicine from a chemist who added it to the register earlier that morning after it was rolled by a bank teller three weeks before. The rambling life of a penny. Unlike the stairs, the hand, the zoo, cloud, mug, violence, heat, fuzz, green, cautious, left, smart, wiggle and design.
Angular Monday evenings with yellow heat and melting hours. Heavy and burdened. Static. Which will eventually become distant, softer thought. Remember when we tilted towards the sun? Remember the slow, golden delight of its standstill? It's escaping my grasp, but wasn't it lovely?
What moves from thought to thought is only consistent in the moment. Once it passes, it will begin to fray. We wonder if it ever happened at all.
