Spring has swooped down and is sitting in the center of creation. Everyone stands around her, motionless, staring. She is unconcerned with the audience’s attention or unawareness. She’s used to it. I want to ask for her autograph. I want to be just like Spring. Whenever she arrives is right on time.
Time! Philosophy, religion, these are just two-dimensional, all forced perspective. They seem so far, so sure, so straight. They’re fucking flat, all right? They’re flat.
You, Me – are three-dimensional. We weren’t made in the U.S.A., we’re not crap. We were imported, we’re quality.
And Spring! She’s trying to explain this to us with her presence. Don’t move. But do breathe – you must breathe – oh GOD, I don’t need anything else but Spring’s air. Then there’s a wallop of wind. Hair, skirts, scarves try to fly away, we stop them, they resent us for it.We start walking. Remembering our routines. If only we could forget them.