The Little Hand on the Clock

Lauryn Hill reminded me tonight through fuzzy speakers:

If it ain't growin' it's dead...

It's never fully night on Highway 301, the supercenters and car lots light the sky for miles so that it's half past noon no matter where the little hand is on the clock.

It was foggy out tonight, the kind of fog that blurs the streetlamps, and on the sleepy-eyed drive home there was a moment when the red lights turned everything the color of fire and for just a moment, I thought I saw the world end.

In retrospect, I think it might have.