The acupuncturist said it was psychological. Or perhaps something I’d eaten or ate on a regular basis. Time to eat less gluten, corn syrup, selves.
Walking down Broadway from the university, I frightened quick and my legs were sore. Uncomfortable thoughts stayed with my gaitly rhythm even through the turn west toward the park and the slowed prance I made to the Delacorte machine. Twelve p-m. A summer’s day. The awkward industry of another generation bequeathed held still my attentions (almost). But there was a document that said things I didn’t understand in unassailable language in my briefcase.
I am me all the time, am I not?
Intertia permitted me only this. I could not grow. I could not step to death.