So sadly defined by work, cut out like a bowl. The bats came down, then swirled and disappeared. The sometimes sound of passing cars and how they echo with the memory of the Jersey shore and Polaroids turning pink, our faces disappearing right before our eyes. The only meeting I had on my calendar was a phantom recurrence for an all-team lunch that wouldn’t happen and it said, meet outside Atlantis.
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Categories: microblogging, prose, writing
Bill Pearse 
life in the the in-between
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Phantom appointments. I have a couple of those. Artefacts from the pre-time.
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It is weird, like looking at debit transactions of where you were, “before.”
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