Face It.

Closing the door on my way out.
Locking it, also, as the crisp winter air hits my face.

The rubber soles of my shoes strike the ground
as I make my way toward town.

Wrapped toastily in a jacket, donning gloves,
hiding my hands in my pockets.

Ears covered by a knitted  hat.
Neck wrapped in a protective scarf.

Looking both ways before crossing the street.
Looking up from the book I happen to be reading.

Stopping for a cup of coffee,
adding cream and sugar to taste.

Checking my watch as I step into the building.
I remove my outerwear.

"It's 9:30 AM,"
I read aloud.

A 5-mile walk?
Good.

Good Morning.

Good Morning, DC.
Destroy, Erase, Improve, now.
Armbar, armcandy.

"Hello..."

"Get this right and you'll be out of here in no time. Age?"
"29."
"No, you're wrong. 31, soon to be 32."

At this rate, an abacus might soon become a staple in my apartment.

Years, cups, ounces.
Millimeters, inches, miles.

2 hours to a pack.
A life begins to burn immediately.

Circumspection, retrospection.
Insight, introspection.

There's no such thing as being born too late or too early.

Mysterious?
I don't intend to be.

There is such a thing as asking too many questions.
Hang it up, disconnect.

The allure of mystery.
Imagination.