I have the strange feeling that I am
awaiting something, or someone. That there is
nothing I can do to hurry up or slow down
the process. Only waiting. Only sterile
tubes of the tick-tock sway of
battered clocks, air conditioning humming
infertile tunes. Who are you, and by
what path do you approach my door?
Will you recognize it as you draw
near, feel some inner stirring, some
quickening of subconscious memory? And I,
will my heart skip when the
footsteps belong to you? Will I draw
breath sharply when I hear your knock
at the door? Will we even recognize
the moment for what it is, or will it
take days for us to realize, or years,
or will it occur only in the
placid, drifting recollections of old age that
I hit upon the moment for what it was.
When that time occurs, will we still
know each other? Do we now?
Or, has this time already occurred?
When someone asks me what I did with the
last hundred days of the Millennium I will
have nothing to say except, I waited. Waited
for work to end, for my next day off,
for training to start, for a table
to open, for sex, for drugs, for good
clubs, for my stories to make some
kind of sense to me.
