i am still ruled by compulsions of odds. as i near the end of my first round, i know that if i keep going, i have to complete a circuit of three. the uncorked wine in my living room pops into my mind, a fully-formed landscape of comfort and warmth, and i compel my ipod to make the decision for me: if the next song that comes up on shuffle is appropriate for stalking the streets at night, i will continue. it isn't. i reflexively hit next, and this one is. i keep walking. there was a time when i made these decisions myself and walked in silence, but i can't remember it.
tiny pieces of stone shine like remnants of car crashes and vandalism, and i know that i was once fearless in the sight of them. my soles have gone soft. it used to be that at the first hint of spring, i would set myself to Toughing Up My Feet, but i have become lax in my old age. even the discarded buds of trees glinting in the post-storm moonlight make me wary. there was a time that my fingers wou