My passport will still be buried in my drawer. My life treads water right now like the inane Olympic synchronized swimming teams. Nine eight five. The judges never agree. They never seem to know.
Every country is different.
E very time I run another round and return to the center, the spot where I subsist, it seems there is another patch of twine rolling around my nucleus. It's wrapping and tightening and encroaching like the scaffolding, and the ex-lover who moved in next door, and others scattered through the city. T he Red Lodge. It's nearly been stolen more often than once. I've broken into it dozens of times while looking at the keys through the window of a slamming driver's side door as it locked.