the future as yesterday
The taxi home retraces the streets of my history. Routes vary, but destinations stubbornly remain the same until time, as a line, is an illusion and adventure lurks in the fog of unknowing.
I fly for a business that insists travel go west, only west, and so encircle the globe with waypoint escapades that feel like freedom, while riding into a horizon of hard destinations.
On arrival, I shout spoilers to myself over at departures. Here, I say, your day is new. Here, I recall it all. Then I hail a taxi and care less about your route, like all else both new and familiar.