...that slow, ghostly, intermingling; that incremental encountering: this is the suggestion of time, never heavy-handed, but always insistent. I am driving through the mountains in the summer of 2008, alone, past the wooden wreck of an old mining shed / not anywhere in your chronology, but a moment that matters because it was the beginning of a deep lonely moment, opportunity for a new plate of time to edge up into the space.
Unknown, an inscription there, an authentic happiness: a rare material that we can rub in our hands, a space where you were--an invisible consolidation of spaces, blurs and future unknowns, certain classrooms with forgotten glances, certain dark pubs with nearly lost conversations; spilled drinks and thoughts and time: all dripping off the edge. /I'm driving on the edge of a gravel road, trying to get off of the mountain as the storm is coming in./These are all moments without any beginning, every raindrop insisting in its quiet, esoteric way. Time not beginning until we decide it has begun to stir, to matter: when it all coalesces into something not to be forgotten, a kiss in the dark, a collective laugh in the cold, a closeness in a warm kitchen. // Crossing one time along another, allowing more light to come through, how absence seems to make sense as the most formal of presences, not a long time but a time always there.

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