There are times when I get a whiff of April on the air and I am pushed with force a thousand pounds per square inch back to that sweet spring day all those years ago, writing letters and pressing daisies between the pages in the blinding sun, broke and drunk on whiskey sitting on the embankment at two in the Wednesday afternoon.
Everything was squared, sorted. I wonder if i could have saved myself four years of bullshit and heartache with just a small shift in perception but then I guess I wouldn't be where I am right now.
We're all products of our times and locations and decisions and accidental meetings and intentional leavings and we all get gently but profoundly bumped around in our own little fates like electrons in a quantum system, you can plan where you're going to be next but you're at the mercy of any small shift that might decide to happen (I've always found far more poetry in physics and chemistry than anything else).
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