On black pavement, I coughed up a pack of smokes and exhaled skywards in the lot just behind the office, watching the swiveling world teeter: three planes crossing overhead, two crows chasing a hawk, plumes reaching upwards, the last three leaves hanging off an autumn tree. There’s a funny thing with numbers, wondering if they add up to something. They do, they don’t.
I thought about the strange things I’ve seen in July: four men in business suits kicking a hackey sack outside a government building, a homeless bum sharing a two-liter bottle of cola with three compatriots, the melancholy impression of wind and rain, the last edge of a yellow moon. Some days it takes more energy to smile than frown. Other times it is the other way around. Smiling, frowning, smiling.
Then the in-between moments: when all you care for is a pillow, looking up into that unblinking eye.