writing in air

there lies a huge disjuncture between the person she would like to be, to that of the person that she is. a self of the past, to one awaiting the turn into a future. the ever vigilant to change and the world around, to the myopic individual who casts merely side glances to those around her. hair in the wind. the fan blows. it is constant. each strand suspended in the air in accordance to an exact timing. methodical shifts of the blades. how fast per second? how much wind artificially created per rotation? maths. method. there is no uneven rhythm. waves have begun taking up a pattern. too much certainty. the old man could predict the next wave in its exact moment. where is spontaneity? no more messages in a bottle. he reaches in but falls behind. the landing is uneven. like the bumps on his skin. do two unevens make it even? she toasted the tip of her bottle to the sunset sky. plastic against the now virtual sky cut up by the rectangular window. the disjuncture is forgotten, forgotten for a while. sirens on the road. someone is dying. they sit in the dark. the people are coming.