1. biking over the bridge I want to write something I think I want I think - and I hold that sentiment dear, like the excitement of unwrapping a package and bringing it into your life, whatever's inside is now outside, and whatever was outside of you is now inside. I have snow shoes, a new camera, a set of film, a novel, my life is thus changed. a bit. and so I think - this sentiment, I want to keep, but then in the rush of signals and logistical navigational organizational temporal figuring-things-out it gets lost a little bit, skitters away on asphalt to evaporate for another day.

2. warm melancholy, summer melancholy, overlaps onto myself as I walk down broadway, palimpsestic overlays (how many times have I written that phrase?) of experiences nesting on top of each other. india in the summer night, hearing that particular characteristic of intensity and urgency that happens when you lean into a conversation with a good friend; this is their life, they are pouring it out to you, and you catch it importantly and cradle it in your hands. your head leans in, their head leans in. over candles or under fluorescents or streetlamps or underground bars or garishly colored restaurants or stoops or amidst the honking of horns-

(to what extent do car manufacturers realize the immense sonic impact they have on the landscape of a city when they tune the default pitch of a horn? why, india, why that particular pitch? could you not be a bit lower, a little bit less piercing? is this your fault, tata motors?)

-the most urgent and important of conversation happens. a barely-chill mumbai night, the relentless (and calm) energy of beijing, hong kong's gorgeousness of sublime scale and capital immensity, the anonymity of summer tokyo evenings, some istanbul evening spent looking at rivers.

for some reason I think of D, and the dorm-apartment we spent time almost-living together in college, and a particular evening making lasagna for J and S, and the 10pm clockwork-like call of that man chanting "I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you" with a bible as his heraldic shield, parting indifferent crowds on the street. nostalgia is 20/20, but this isn't just nostalgia, but some other kind of scale or scope, like I did the thing where you put your finger between the pages you're reading and close the book for a moment, just so you can feel the weightiness of its pages between your fingers, and the suddenness to which you have advanced so far. (am I already on chapter 28? going onto chapter 29? how did this happen?)

3. the rule on this thing is that things are discussed like coronas, like eclipses, where the central object is covered to see, in more detail, the peripheries.

4. time becomes measured in years.