There is never any truth beyond the moment. Which is an arse-about way of saying there is truth all the time. If one can be bothered to pay attention, of course. As she reached up to get something from an overhead cupboard I fell backward into love again. After that, we called a truce. And far from where the Easter parade was scheduled to take place was to be found a man with ill-fitting brown corduroy pants waiting on a matching jacket and tie that would never arrive. His white wedding shirt, dirty at the collar, would have to go it alone this time. At least his shoes and belt match, someone in the distant crowd mumbled to themself. Strings broke out upon the air. It was nearly time. He ran his hand over his newly shaved head, against his two-day growth of a beard. Laziness. Like a neighbourhood cat had woken up for a moment, then returned to sleep with an exclamation point on the indifference. Hard to see. Hard to see, now. But yes, the rest was a tangential walk into whiteness. That much I can reveal. A recipe of somnambulism and cheap boot leather, the gravelly crunch of less certain roads. With each new step. No new headlines, no foreign correspondents, no work but the ascent into forgetfulness and other forms of proscribed bliss.