“I’ve shifted into analytical mode lately. My output for a while is likely to be only articles of nonfiction.”
Only likely.
“I’m becoming more verbose. That’s always a sure sign. It’s weird, and so is my syntax.”
A bat just hit the window.
“That’s weird. Anyway, a friend of mine said something about the number 27 always being the answer.”
It’s the first cubic number, you know.
“That’s what he said.
Anyway, I told him I liked it only because I was born on it,
and so was my grandma,
and so was my sister:
March, May, July.
3, 5, and 7.”
All prime numbers.
“So then he said that it was all so Pythagorean. And I began to wonder what it is.
The Imageo Dei.
“You read our e-mail.
Anyway,
I think I think
too much. I try to find
too much meaning
in co-
incidence.”
It’s the secret diaspora. Fragmented across all our faces.
“Stop that. But 27
–it’s like,
an inheritance. From
her, to me and
her.”
As above, so below.
“Macro is micro,
and mirrors go on forever?”
Meh.
“But then he broke. He wondered why we all are islands. Why men are mechanics of division.”
Das fraternitas?
“Ja. I don’t have any good answers for that.”
The merry-go-round is spinning out of control and we are all still riding?
“The system got sick.”
Too many false profits.
“Now all we have is
Coincidence: A Laundry List
–a road map to the dying.”
Preach it.
“My best friend is black man, you know. His family came up from slavery.”
And where were you at?
“My family worked below,
red and white, on the
Underground Railroad.”
(What, no blues?)
And then what?
“Then they came by
and we ran up–”
Together?
“Aye.”
The high road taken, but not yet stirred!
“So when I first saw him, he was so familiar, like I’d known him for years.”
It’s the two-hundred year handshake.
“That’s not even the weird part.”
The question is also the answer?
“You’ll never guess what his birthday is. It starts with a three and ends with a–”
27?
“It’s like the universe is winking or something.”
It just has something in its eye.
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