I had a moment, maybe. Or maybe not.
Maybe I had a moment not of fortitude or certainty, but of maybe complacence at the indifference of the world, thinking of raging fires and super-heated spitoons.
A moment.
Unto myself.
"It is well with thee, my soul."
What I know not, betwixt and between, but perhaps, a kind of fleck of consciousness, a blip, and I was thinking, not to external queries, "who made thee? WHO MADE THEE?!" Pointing and swearing.
Today is Pi day.
People in my corner, not knowing, and myself, just discovering Phi, coming in from the cold, a sojourner and a singer of songs, avering the thing of something common to us all.
I had a forkful or two of peach pie. The dough was underdone, but that too is a style, also under-seasoned, no cinnamon or brown sugar, and I was like, okay, but then there is natural sweetness from the peach itself, of which I have eaten, and the peach gore.
"Did he smile, to gaze upon, his work, to see?"
Fack.
"WHO MADE THEE?!?"
A moment, teetering precariously close, standing askew, about to faceplant into coherence.
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