The story takes the usual turns, the witness winds up cold on a slab, the suspect has an alibi that is air tight. All the evidence suddenly decides to point towards the moon. Still it sort of putts along, the mix far too rich, the parking brake trailing smoke. We love our stories, however dense or familiar. They unspool behind us, before we can catch them they run down the road. Even the best ones want to leave us behind.
Maybe the day was taken. Maybe all you had were a few glimpses and all of it was gone. It could be that you paid for the last night with best cuts of today, and you will have to learn to live with the debt born of all you squander. Pay attention, it is like a trial. Pay attention: you will be tested.
There is no solace in labor, none in respite. You can let go of all attachment, or you can clamp down tooth and nail and fight it all out. You can plan a trip or take up a hobby. They will never let you rest. The plots recycle and the roads are all open. Name the day, leave the night, it always ends in sweat and recrimination. You breathe raggedly into the slowing air. You struggle in all the stillness just to catch your breath.
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