A street. Here. Now.
Will it be this time? Will it be never? I will know my name and my age, my own hands, all my histories, same as ever. Quiet facts come to me like old finger drawings on glass, only traces. These trees. This house. This beginning. I stand at the side of the road, taking it all in, hoping and hoping. And I wonder, not for the first time, if it has some kind of start, this life, and who’s controlling it, and if it is ever, ever going to stop.
I will remember everything. I will write it down in my memory and keep it. And then I will sit, unnoticed, pretending not to wait.