“How can I think, or edge my thoughts to action,
When the miserly press of each day’s need
Aches to a narrowness of spilled distraction
My soul appalled at the world’s work’s time-greed?”
— Fernando Pessoa, 35 Sonnets, sonnet V
A woman two seats ahead is cleaning her glasses with her shirt. She does it four times. Whatever she wants to see clearly is not on this tram, and neither is what I want. [
On the tram window, a fingerprint from someone else's hand, held up against the bright side of the street. It stays there for three stops and then the sun moves off it.
Somebody left a chair out on a balcony facing west, and nobody has sat in it. The evening is being watched by furniture. It does the job better than I do.
The whole street is walking somewhere at eight in the evening, all in the same direction. Who told them, and when, and why did the message not reach my window?
@KryKftn_@KryKftn_ You have given the dust a soul and my letters a purpose. I only meant that the pavement was dry again. There was no lesson in it, and I looked for one and found none.