We stay up late.
We stay up late, insisting that it is early, that we have plenty of time. We always fall asleep before each inch and permutation of time is conquered. We talk about how nothing else is like this, and perhaps that is true in the way that all variations are true. We are different people together when you are here, when I am there, when we are nowhere — the versions are unrecognizable when transposed. We walk down the street and are strangers to us just hours before, when our field of vision narrowed to only each others faces, when the world got incredibly small and we were large within it, all that could exist, no newspapers no war no errands no other rooms in the house anymore, no other streets or towns, no other time before or after. Then, when those lost distances seem lost and distanced again, we are alone, recording the way space narrows, and space suddenly feels too far and too wide.