From a walk

“It’s beautiful out tonight” the stranger tells– doesn’t ask– me. It’s beautiful out tonight, why does she inform me and not inquire? We are typically not in the habit of foisting our evaluations on random passersby.

But don’t I want to be told? And don’t I want to tell? And why are we suddenly friends? (And are we? Is that what this is? ) And why are you speaking to me? And does this mean you would help me in a moment of need?

As if in telling me, asserting at me gently, she’s touching the outlines of a long-lost but distantly familiar face, and saying ‘is it really him? It’s really him! After all these years!’ and I respond: ‘my goodness, I wasn’t sure I’d ever see him again,’ and we rejoice at his homecoming.

Beauty has made us into compatriots of a country whose territory is nowhere but here, in this shared pleasure that gives itself to both without diminishment or partition. So suddenly we saw our camaraderie, and so suddenly we forgot it, forget it.

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