Surmounter of the Present-Past 

I am in Los Angeles.

I boarded the last flight of the year and came here.

The pilot announced that we were the last flight as though it should be rather remarkable.

As though tomorrow wouldn’t be another day with countless flights.

Still, being the last flight of the year did feel different, strange, like running from the year change, running from time, running from the shadow of night. In my mind's eye I could see the plane flying fast over the plains and the line of change chasing, catching up with us… That inevitable, welcome cloak of destiny.

Oh yes: I prefer to meet the day, to fly into the charging night.

It vexed me.

Going west is displeasing in that way: You go back in time when you might, instead, surge forward.

For me, there is always a short period of adjustment.

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