The Pharmacon Atlas leans into soft asphalt in front of my new crib. If I looked outside my window, I could see its blue luster in a neighbor's porch light. The sun doesn't set in that window, but I still wish the curtain was more opaque.
If I were not exhausted with many statuses to rock on the morrow, I would ride. Instead, I sit slumped on the futon nursing the last bottle of ginger beer. My gear is not yet dry from the last storm I was caught in. It wasn't fully dry from the storm before that. The rains of the gulf have come; if I held off because of dark clouds, the engine would never turn, the rubber would not wear and this is a life no rider should live.
Across the world, my child plays with nuns. I remember her sitting next to me, drawing on the tablet, speaking her innocent exposition of the world. Without her, there is nothing special about a day.
On the way home, I saw a few bright stars on the horizon. Didn't recognize the constellation. So many styles are unrecognizable in the darkness before dawn. I only hope that I am in dreamless sleep before the sun comes.