The flight came in two hours late, right on time. Every day of being here has been like that, almost. Constant state of fight and fright, afterflight. So much of how we speak is based on vision, I think.

I want to write a book about seeing. I am writing a book about seeing, and that might be how it starts. I hope one day to finish it, as I’ve heard that the best books are the ones that people can read. We’ll see, though, and you’ll see me whole, maybe, the is, the want to be, and the should’ve been, wandering around thrice-style in a great big single mostly made-up one-horse town fit at best for only two.

The book’ll end with something ambigu-clever and open-ended and likely plagiarized like the mere possibility of grace does not turn reality to fact, but in fact self-knowing foresight says I’ll lay the last bit of punctuation down to rest thinking how I always thought it’d be a while before I got to the point where the last thing I wrote wasn’t recent.

But before all that, this: The anti-hero builds a wall around himself, but horseshoe-shaped with the open end toward “future” and his displaced “I” a peg pedestal standing firm as a swivel so no one ever knew for sure where the open end would face but they all always knew from roughly where the windy gusty breezes blew. They’d blow and squall and I know that’s not a verb and he’d turn his horseshoe wall and willfully mistake his parallax shift for movement. And a proximal me-like figure outside narrator type will be there all along from a safe and generation-gapped distance singing an all along song about how every observer creates a separate universe with a seeming simple turn of the head, a simple shifted gaze with horseshoe walls like blinders. That’s at least a chapter, maybe six.

And then the turn, the fall, back around and down, and the teller sees the anti-hero in himself like a personality trait or jawline trace and decides to break all the mirrors in a fury over fate, thinking something referenceable and sloganish like Fury Over Fate, and naming it all Denial in the midst of his lifelong quest for roots and reasons.

Nothing romantic about stifled potential, his fateful fury over the devil’d shoulder voice says to him in slippery spiteful sinister whispers through half-bared teeth behind dry-cracked and snarling lips, nothing noble about a mind-heart combo set on elsewhere or other but stuck here, this, mistaking inheritance for limitation, mistaking a family tree for a place, feeling all wound up pent up vigorous like someone who’s surely gonna be someone but who forgets at each and almost every outlooking vision swing that only doing makes it, learns—thankfully not at all too late—that in obvious fact it’s ok how the persistent, dogged strength to maintain curiosity in a post-truth era is like being caught in a Chinese finger trap practicing non-attachment. It’s ok, you have to let go a little to wiggle free, you’ll see.

It’s ok, you’ll see. And then like life, it ends, a little late, right on time.