The gentleman that sold me my bedtime six pack remembered me. After years. And after without a thought between the either of us regarding the other.
It’s been a while, he said. You moved?
I told him I did. Funny thing, the timing of questions.

I asked him if he still listened to lectures on his laptop. Scientists and thinkers and such. He still does. I thought I had heard him listening to Dr. Michio Kaku one time, years ago. He claimed that conversation was instead that I was the one who had suggested he check out Doc Kaku. But still, something was remembered. The place. The people. The topic. What a thing, time seems to be.
Upon returning, this late night or early, early morning, this now almost empty hole which I’d been living- I had a message from a friend. We both recalled what we listened to when Bowie died. Upon hearing of his departure from this plane of existence. We had different songs. But then again, we are different people.
I put ‘All The Young Dudes’ on in the dive bar jukebox, where I found myself drinking that afternoon. That day.
But tonight.
From the talking picture hall, I drove past where I lived before the current (soon to be past). Down the streets I used to stumble my stare would escape, sober as a judge. The physical change is present. In the infrastructure, as well as in myself. Gazing down a particularly flickered streetlight lit road, I thought of someone. I ended up conversing with them not much later. I won’t say who or what or why. No matter. Or none of your business. Pick one.
I looked down another, and thought of someone else. Neither of us has yet to say a thing. Me thinks, that we will continue on that way.
And more streets, more others. The wonderfully tragic and optimistically doomed others. As well a the constants. As they stood. As they still stand, in some form or another.
As many visually inticed memories one can reasonably manage without crashing the car.
And now, thinking upon it, I did not remenisce of the person those walks used to grow heavy with the thought of. A heavy habitual. Likely all the streets and sidewalk that I had ever meandered down in that town. That old, once seeming ever present thought. Now, a thought further and fewer between.
So it goes. Or so the old book says.
This beer is empty. I shall fetch another. Haste, post, haste.
I thought about writing this tonight, as it is technically the title time. Then- I thought myself foolish for thinking such a thought. A younger man would have. But he was a mad prospector wasting hours in the sun searching for nickels and dimes. Allegedly, I run a more efficient operation.
And yet, gusto is gusto.
Might have been up until now. Until a final mad dash in this place. Until now, I was thinking myself afraid of what is to come next. But fear is not what I feel now. For the hopefully well anticipated unknown. The impending of what is now upon me. The next leap down. Or up. Depending on your aim. It can mean the same.
When traveling (or plummeting) to an eventual other place in space, you can always witness that you’ve already been moving toward that vague something. Either by feeling, or tone, or symbolism- or simply by turning your fucking head to see that where you were is no longer where you are. And that ‘where you are’, doesn’t seem likely to stay that way for much longer, if it isn’t already gone already.
Talk of change is the same thing. Action toward change is far too often blunt, or brutish, or blind- or ordinarily or extraordinarily wrong. But it is not always. And when it is of a non-barbaric persuasion, I believe, is when it echoes through existence.
No. Not echoes. That would imply it is dead or dying. Real change rings. Something much more alive.
There is much to be done tomorrow. Well, today, I suppose. But tomorrow as well. Did a good bit today. Or is that yesterday now.
…
Later that day, I read this back again. The last Sunday in the hobbit hole.
It was worth the good and bad, alike. Gotta have plenty of both is you wish this.life gain any depth.