i have ten minutes to write before i must make my way out of the door. ten minutes, or six hundred seconds. i am not running out of breath. the air still hangs around me, though the more i write, the less time there is. by the time i will be done writing this, the clock will have ticked and then stopped. by the time this letter is sealed off and buried in the back of a drawer, i will be out of the door and onto the streets of chalcedon.
“chalcedon.”
chalcedon with its 9°C weather, winds north at 11 km/h, 81% humidity.
i will walk on the quieter streets until i have no choice but to walk on the busy streets. on the busy streets i will long for the quieter ones with a nostalgia that hasn’t yet matured. i wonder if i should offer my minutes to the impending sentimentality, a gift of time to fester, a preemptive measure. by then i will be where i am supposed to be at that given moment, away from this letter, a little further apart from you. if i am not there then surely an exceptional change in direction will be to blame, though sudden gusts of wind aren’t expected in this weather.