Along November-not in December-came the fireflies glowing and floating through the air, and for a moment, a delicate beautiful amber moment, I forgot almost what and who I was.
Be it for an evening, an hour, between selling breaks, I forsook all that I was and was as something new entirely, a member of the FBI, or the only white in a community of negroes, I was.
Along the evening, the things took to the air and whispering amongst themselves, danced to some music that was fit and set for them and them alone; I could but watch, and in my forgetfulness, smile, a sort of ghost aphasia that would overtake me in certain periods.
There were time theories, political rhetoricians, and essayists on history and a myriad of other subjects, between bleatings and theory, the would pee off the end of the porch, all over chicken feathers.
What could I say, but the past was an argument, less settled than set, and the future was some sort of vaguery that was setting like gelatin as we ourselves sat and breathed among ourselves.
We all knew well that Tron and Katie had restraining orders, party favors of a rape game that threatened to pull in a lot of innocent bystanders.
Along November-held over until December-the owls sang out to only themselves: something in the weird owl language, and we all sat and wondered among campfires, beans and metal plates, it was, we wondered.
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