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There is an endless expanse of the present-tense. Every second is a repeat of the preceding seconds in superfluous identical details. What makes this moment religious is the nebulous context of its events, and the ease at which these events are perceived as natural. While this is the 'natural' order of events for this environment, it is by no means instinctual, expect by our perfunctory delusion and stringing along of trivial distractions. Relationships are drawn between analogous things, which themselves are only analogous to themselves, and not anything else. The breath of understanding from which realization is brought forth must indeed be as if the odds of inhaling in outer space and picking up some pocket of pressurized O2 oxygen and nitrogen. The writing seems to have put things more into perspective and taken dignity and articulating meddle, unawares, as the topic dwindles to the psychological and reflective.

“What passes for optimism is most often the effect of an intellectual error.” —Raymond Aron

One day I was standing outside, against a truck. The sun was beating down on me, and there was idle chatter of women speak in the background. The cars would pass by, oblivious of how wonderfully good and hot of a September day it was. A boy, as he was often referred to, continued writing, and that boy became I, and I became that boy. Across the street, 100 feet distant was a store. It was a very small store, about the size of a Japanese apartment. The “Enjoy Coke” sign was both quaintly appealing and fully implicative of its current purpose. I would imagine it could possibly offer me a hot coke. The clouds scattered as they were, all seemed to have some tint of held water. Rain was thus possible, yay the sun. Hoping that he was, a stranger by happenstance would greet him -- he did not entertain such delusions for long. As the sun beat down, the trees made their swaying noise, the cars kept passing by, and the people kept talking. It was quite pyrrhonist (Eudaimonia; Apatheia; Ataraxia; "Golden Mean") . That moment ended, when people snapped back into focus, and this narrator was given the mental option of singing alone with Tracy Lawrence's “Find Out Who Your Friends Are" (blaring from inside the building to his left) How poetic that my thoughts should amount to nothing. What was this boy’s name? A wasp {love bug), a now empty road, people still talking -- that was the boy’s name.
A wise scripture once remarked, ("Its winter now. The first snow this world's ever seen is falling in gray sheets where they've started burning our fields and orchards.") (“’But this winter won’t last, darlin’. Not forever. And when new hands set to tending this earth they’ll till my pieces under -- Grind them into the veins of gold I’ve laid. Then the roots of all they plant will wind around us; Keeping Us Close – For an eternal slumber that will never fade.’”)

{The now is all that matters...how small a piece of the puzzle (we neglect to consider the other parts, too)}