Working title, número um

A Friday late-afternoon jog around Burns Park, with the sun slowly setting in the sky, and that thing that is accurately described as the “junkyard of the self” (Ali Smith’s words; not the researcher’s) slowly dissipating like the gallant piece of shit that it is, and the chill and goofiness of life remaining, around the many houses and porches that appear and keep appearing and coming like, as the Portuguese people sometimes say (the researcher in particular) “there was no tomorrow”; and although there are many tomorrows as there are leaves on the ground (very few leaves on the trees; many tomorrows in the mind and in the sky) it is very difficult to escape the feeling that, well, yes, we are already in the time of that thing the ancients most beautifully named (and you, and also me) as “spring”. Simply — how should I put it? Ah, well, I’ll just say it and damned if it sounds cheesy — awesome. Simply awesome, peeps.