Stepping out from the chaos of a well-lit house with friends and television and cats to an empty yard, lit only with a battered laptop, a cigarette, and the barking of a neighbor's dog.
Reading the words of a treasured friend. Separated by a hundred and some-odd miles and a couple of hours, your heart breaking with hers as you read. Writing as you breathe in her story, knowing that you know it, reading it like it's the first time. Was it last year? Or the one before?
The barking falls away. The cigarette burns out, there is nothing left but you and the empty black of the sky and the words of your friend. And you write as you read, connected to her across space and time, sharing a moment that technically doesn't exist.
And as you stand in this impossible moment, know a peace that defies description. Know that to attempt to share this moment means turning away from the beautiful void, means returning to the ordinary chaos of life, coloring that primal sensation with the structures we impose to make sense of it, to relate it to the rest of the world.
But the peace is enough. That you felt it is enough.
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