6:34

The accident in purpose, and vice versa. That’s what I’m talking about. You link to me and I to you to make a We. A game in which past and future comingle without presence. It’s off there somewhere, and so are we. Or rather, you’re here and I’m not, and vice versa. Baby wakes in stages, kicking and waving. A being signaling for help. Someday she’ll spell it out in pebbles on the beach. Someday write it in the sky. Someday it won’t come, but now it does. Purpose on accident, no games, obliterating presence transmitted in particulate wave moments promising life despite ourselves. Half way to the arbitrary marker I stop and claim it in the name of intention, solving at least one problem with my new problem-generating machine. It’s not in the book, but that's the only place to find it.  And no, not “between the lines.” There are none. Ur-prose, the apparently infinite density of imagined lives between us, where no place is truly like home. Color me a purple utopian. I don’t care. I’m with Barney Miller, drinking ginger ale on the sofabed home sick from school in the Year of OMG 1984. I stop on a numerical anagram and think the very moment a turning point between us. We do go back, though knowing not where, when, why nor how, but we do.