one spill later.

Let's talk about bicycles. Let's talk about how legs pump and, in the motion and the speed, and in the distance you cover with your head down, bugs thumping up your nostrils, you can start to taste a little something in the back of your throat that is a memory, and also a desire, and mostly regret because regret is what becomes phlegm.

I remember you in the spokes. the light coming through between them, i mean. like through the cracvks in the boards of the house where i grew up. i remember peeking through and seeing into the room below, and it runed out it wasn't a room in m yhouse at all; it was adifferent place, and I think maybe Norse, perhaps egyptian. I've never been to egypt but I hear its a little dustyhot. I hear that people think about you in ways you couldn't otherwise imagine. or perhaps you could imagine, with a little oomph; a little whiskey shot. maybe hemingway knew what it was all about.

perhaps the way to understand is to start at the end and work your way backwards and around. i once found a maze and discovered its depths, plumbed it out. it had a name, like a woman, but i've forgotten it now.

These words all have cobwebs, and I apologize if the dust gets up in your lungs. I haven't been here in ages. I've sort of forgotten how things looked. I should have tidied up before setting the padlock. I should have left a little note for you on the door.