The twenty-six things flying around my head, things, for that moment they hovered in mid-flight:
Some clung to the walls of cerebral and more likely metaphysical hemorrhaging;
Sucking, waiting, bastradizing, writing their own twisted tunes to sing the moment
Where I left off.
But for the meantime, this,
Pause of the century,
Where none of the outside voices in my head, or the books, or the custom-built guilt, or the silence at the end of rote incantations,
A moment, out of nowhere, in the middle of what is possibly the busiest part of a stressful work week,
Where the worries slithered back to where they belong: in the future,
Where the regrets fizzled out into the now non-existent past: memories are reconstructions, and so the truth is we see what we want to see,
Where everybody's faces feel so kind and taste so soft and look like a newborn's first morning,
Random grace, corporate battlefield, the bloodbaths are never gone.
But they are, for this moment, just red.