To “Insurgent”

I’m agitated by the fact that if I had swapped between the A and C trains at 14th Street, when there was still ample time to dally across the platform, I might have turned my head and found behind me the “Divergent” sequel. But I am not wholly confident that it was underneath the seat…after all, I stood up before I changed cars and there was a man sitting adjacent to me. My Carmel leather back on my hip and overtaking my boundaries, my GRE book on my lap, and so unless I had taken the book out of my bag and laid it under the purple test albatross, it probably made it all the way to Alvin Ailey with me.

In my haziness, I find more logicality in the belief that after I horrifying awoke to the fact that Karen had begun pumping life blood into my Horton workshop 10 minutes ago and me still gabbing to Kara on the phone, that I stuck it on the dressing room bench and fled upstairs sans library treasure. If only it were possible to….

(You are not in control and this is only a reminder. You are not in control and may you rest in peace. You are not in control and God chortles ‘Hey’ from above. You are not in control and you are finite. You are not in control and welcome to a hike in your library fines.)

 

 

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