Context Free Words: Saturday, October 4, 2025

The ball field is lit up. Light sparkles and dances. It slashes along long swathes of blacktop. I look out the window at the ants, hopeful, perhaps praying for the flood of joy that–sometimes–accompanies the beauty of giving up all control. Instead, the throb of a damaged nerve shakes me from my stationary pose. Soon, I’ll either be a smear or hailing another cab. Both are hard to justify or understand. The complexity of moving forward through space multiplied by time should be punctuated by a mere comma. The marque flickers.