The Longest Now

I walked through the Yard early this morning, with a bag in one hand (filled with breakfast remains) and a phone in the other (filled with digital desid.), holding onto each only by fingertips.  There was a light breeze from the west.  For three breaths I was filled with a primal joy in friction.  Holding things felt particularly freeing.

It passed; in another minute I was trundling east at forty miles an hour; I jumped into conversation with Tariq Krim and a night’s century of mail and the rest of the world.