Member-only story
The Golden Hour
Eternal Departure and Return
The Golden Hour travels around the planet. It is the hour before sunrise and the hour before sunset. It is the closing curtain here—and the actors preparing to come on stage there. Light closing shop in one place—and opening for business in another. The preparation for rest—and the stirring awake.
Cruxes.
It seems not long ago that this day arrived. The cups of coffee poured. The shirts put on, the pants the skirts the socks and shoes. Jewelry. Teeth brushed. Hair combed and hats, because it’s getting cool. There were breakfasts, eggs and toast and oatmeal and yogurt with fruit. Maybe cold pizza. A stampede out doors and down the stairs and elevators, towards the buses and cars and subways and walking. Footprints everywhere.
Commencement.
Almost 8 billion variations. Walking somewhere. Sitting somewhere. Being born or dying somewhere. Sleeping, eating and fucking somewhere. Multitudes.
A dental cavity was filled. A flat tire on a bicycle. Walking a child to school. A bungy cord jump. Feet pedicured. The old man afraid to fly. Police lights spotted in a rear-view mirror. Liquor store crowded. Cheese melted on bread. Violin string snapped during a performance. Password entered. Winding a wrist watch. Suicide by hanging. Page 68 reached in…
