The minutiae of everyday life hits in the gut when I'm wishing away minutes until the next ones. And I look over and there's a potbellied shirtless man basking in the sun for minutes that I wished never existed. Not trying to unwish someone's existence, so pause and look into the beauty next to me from passing light over the face of a man I know. Walking on air with him till the next seat not taken. All the time too conscious of the circumstances in which we land as strangers in a strange land. Where attempting to coalesce takes many hands to a place that we call ours but not really “ours” (not yet or ever?). For a final leap of faith until impact. When a proper way to speak is not a concern (or sentence structure for that matter), and all your observations are correct in seeing genitalia in that rock.