I found this is the street so I’m sharing it with you. It was blowing around the base of a streetlamp. The sidewalk at midday was empty save for me and my son C hurtling along on his balance bike. The paper was worn and dirty, torn and beaten up. I like found paper, I like found words. Ages ago, walking with Dave, I stopped to pick up a torn paper, much like this one. He was aghast, complained that the paper was filthy. I slipped it in between my notebook pages then, just as I did with this one a few days ago. When I read Sartre’s Nausea and he felt compelled to reach down into the rain soaked muck for abandoned papers, torn and sodden, I thought yes, I understand this compulsion. To witness another’s discarded life.
Everyone is love and everyone is scared and everyone wants to reach out and hold on tight and spin with the world that won’t stop.