Zen among the ruins.

Of two important friends, inextricably bound together by their hearts, but suddenly fresh and alone as newly ragged-off babes, eschewing the towel, the swaddling, looking upon the world with fresh eyes, but never quite alone at any moment, for that little piece of the other is with them.

And I, through ATL, Atlanta Hartsfield, anyways, not finding my stuff at the baggage trolley, and not ever bothering to yell at the airline about it.  Thinking to myself, "I'll buy some more underwear at Walmart, anyway, and maybe some magazines, other swag, General Tso's."  "Look what GAAAAAHD just did to us man!"  Drinking coffee, looking like the world's most contented vagabond, with only that cup to answer for, meanwhile knowing my change of clothes and tablet are in another airport, somewhere across the amber waves of fruited grain, across the planes.

Meanwhile, Tommy Chong, anxiety, the clawing of nails, burrowing roach-holes into the easy chair.  "That's not what it's about."  I'm thinking I guess that's right.  But so much of a blood clot can kill even the most robust among us.  Don't you see life is killing you?  A band-aid to cope, is infinitely better than suffering without, I know, but to terminally at once brutally solve the queries, to put all of that pain and suffering and anxiety and ankle-biting into one face and have at that.

A blood-burned totem of one's hostility with an otherwise benign world.

In the park, I was pulling a particularly difficult Jenga, and the lady walked by, and I'm like, "don't I know you?"

She's like, "no, I'm sure I don't know you, but I've seen you around."

My hand was sort of jiggering a bit, like you get most nervous in a tense moment, but it was the coffee and the nicotine and all the other in the air, that even if my mood was rather unbothered, the frame of the carcass could have a kind of unguided turmoil.

She had stopped, and I don't know if she was watching me being a Jenga surgeon, displaying my strange aptitude for building something of nothing, something of its own parts, mashed potatoes dipped in gravy, onions, towers built and propagated of their own substance.

"You ever see me at Walmart?" I asked.  "I was there a while."

"Naw" she said, a ghost of a smile, something of an old thought walking across her face like a subtle shadow, "I worked at IGA, though."

"Yar" I said.  "Oh yar.  That's it."