Untitled meditations

Riding home at night is like a haiku. All you hear is wind whispering in the spokes, soft stroke of pedal, and the fact that the chain needs a little lube. The bike sings to me, but it's a song composed largely of motion and breath, rather than actual sound.

Except, of course, for the quick sshhhhh! of brake pads when cars or pedestrians veer out in front of me without warning, as they often do.

I'm wearing Shrodinger's Cat on my arms, which so far smells primarily of melons. Though it's hard to tell, since the apartment also smells of chain lube.

I'd intended to help out with a friend's podcast earlier, but the cigarette smoke in that joint was way too much for my virgin (and I'd like to keep them that way, thank you) lungs.

It meant that I spent some time sitting in the window of a cafe on a chic street in Williamsburg, watching the hipsters march by in insouciant procession.

For a moment I thought I caught sight of the Brown Bike Man, walking unsteadily on bike shoes, but I don't think it could have been him. His shoes were ordinary sneakers, if I recall.