7:23 a.m. - 2005-08-07
one oh one
There's a cinder-block wall at the end of my street. A scar from the fifties maybe? Or whenever it was that they cut out a big swath of my neighborhood and implanted these six aggressive, parallel lanes of asphalt. It's a block away, downwind of my place, but in the morning the breeze relents and I hear the highway beyond it -- a murmuring rush, a waterfall of gasoline. How many stories a day are borne from one chapter to the next along this hot stripe of purpose? How many free cells are borne in a week's time down this artery of will, and how great is the spectrum of freedom?
I swirl, drinking coffee in the eddies.
