Genus without species. Knowing that it must be because the path towards has been paved, unless the pavers too were told of a future that might or might not have deposited itself at the end of the road. Folks funnel past, it is still four hours to go before the spot needs to be secured. It's not as though the signage was made with false intentions. The wall curves down in lemon and lime above a television nobody watches, yet more background din to the waves of passengers puttering about, half present, half listless. Waiting. Such a silly game, is it not? Kennedy headlines divide half the desk with outlets—a funny thing to call them since we think of what goes in. Upon even a split second more reflection, it makes sense. An outlet for the electricity that is sent through rubber-coated copper out to be redirected yet further through buckteeth and the occasional tongue to shock the life back into a box that should never have been alive in the first place. The shell woman, whose first name matches that of the misspelled spice, would be writhing under the waves, sawtooth and imperceptible from one another unless the world is slowed to that of great distance or proximity. To be tiny would be to see waves as massive. To be worlds away would be to see them as static. Where is time from and how does it hold itself so confidently? A tiger's mask to put eyes on the back of its head so we may never understand that it turned away from us. I should sometimes like to follow the folks who have found their way beyond time. A few hours to them might be nothing at all. It may be forever. The silhouetted figures, plastered flat onto the walls to the restrooms, have been midstep for what might as well be years. The green circle, always filling itself into nothing around the rounded white square, might never finish turning itself back into a sawtooth wave represented cyclically. The supposed end of it makes it less bearable than the fading tick marks that circulate over and over knowing they may never reach a destination. It seems like it worked, though. Suddenly the pacing leads somewhere and the walker stands not exhausted but content, in a field of green flowers that point down with their singular stalk cradled in two leaves. Find the largest pair of shades you can, false preacher man, with the redwashed boots made pink and the oversized sweater hanging only halfway down your torso over the white lapel collar that made you a nun's son. The National plays as we wait for international flights, one living and one remembered, the main names forgotten already. The flight number I'm looking for has not showed up on the large screen televisions I keep glancing toward. It might make sense to ask after all. There is still time to kill.
Such a strange phrase. Same with congratulations so violent in nature. "You killed it!" "You crushed it!" "You fucking shredded that!"
"You really helped that blossom!" "You really nurtured a goodwilled spirit with that one!" "You gave space for this beautiful thing to grow and provided it with the care to help it nurture securities to counteract its self-destructive tendencies!"
Those sound so catchy, don't they? Keep looking for four numbers, the lotto's around the corner. Everything is half-decided. Probability is basic: it either happens or it doesn't, fifty percent fifty percent chance. Off to find some help, my mind is spinning wheels and I ran out of lamb's wool a few skeins ago. Flying geese.