I remember you now.

I understand now why it has taken me so long. I was not of a right mind then. No, I was wrong-headed, straight-minded and left-handed. My vision was a narrow swath of sight, it was the path cut by the light coming through the exit door. It cut across the trailer park and I followed it blindly with tunnel vision. I was carrying a red suitcase and a number to some phone booth, the holy grail.

I barely registered your form on the outskirts of my landscape. You were standing in the out door of your citronette trailer, rooted there by a flat tire and an ocre frame. I remember you now.

Not what you looked like but that inimitable feeling I got as I walked away. The fight to keep moving against that magnetic pull. It made me thirsty. It gave me a headache.

I told myself it was the heat. I told myself it was the desert. I told myself it was everything that came before. But I was wrong. It was the future waiting to happen and you can't see it very well

but it's strong and it can burn a hole through you if you're not looking.