"And because of this, I have a huge blind spot,"

says the man across the room from me, being far more honest than he means to be, instead believing that he is actually speaking about his optic nerve.

"You have to move around your blind spot. It's like looking through a fishbowl. < ha ha ha > The pressure makes me wide-eyed. It makes me have a different sense of compassion for other people."

The person listening to him (whom he intends to hear him, not me surreptitious) responds equally, though I can only hear phrases: "after an hour of that," "she had exactly," "a friend of mine," "but I joke about it," "it's only a couple of us," "it's better than."

They vibrantly talk about standing desks next, and I can't be bothered to work that hard for a metaphor.

Outside the window one furry human leg replaces a furry canine leg in the exact same seat. A person in bike shorts paces around a French pastry and orders two bottles of something glassy that looks sharp and thick.

There are less birds now, less buses and sunshine and poems and taco trucks as well. Instead, with the rain coming, the seats are empty, the couples hold hands less anxiously, the milk isn't cold. 

I read everything to keep from feeling like I'm reading.
Once you feel like you're reading, the reading is over. You can only stop or push past.
Like this, moments before this post:

It's getting time to stop. [listening to other's conversations, waiting to pet dogs, dodging the heat, smiling at kissing strangers, stealing mismatched words from books about hypnosis and recklessness, not knowing how to spell bus in the plural, sending dirty messages to the handsome Tigre sitting across from me] It's getting time to go home.

We live five blocks from here, and neither of us know how to get there flawlessly yet. But we like it that way, and though I know it's impossible, I hope it never changes. When it's fully changed our only choice is to move. After all, we have to keep things whole.

Mr. Blindspot suddenly says, "I'm a sentimentalist, so I get moved easily by stuff like that."

Well, Mr. BS, I get moved easily by stuff like this,
film of red in the absence of:

 *