A saunter a sway.

Today is Tuesday and the bells are ringing. They are the bells of Tuesday.

They are made of bronze to signify the day and its placement in the hearts and minds of the people. Its like a middle period, agrarian, bronze-age feel to the people. That is what Tuesday feels like. Its a day that feels like the early advent of smelting has just begun and that new discoveries are ahead.

Wednesday has its own bell, a more refined bronze. More pure in makeup and sound. Thursday could only be a bell of iron, and Friday is a bell made of copper wire, with Saturday and Sunday bells ringing from prerecorded bell tones. Monday? People throw stones at each other in the center and their yells are the primitive bells.

Yes, its tiny I'm told. Their metaphor for each week day is, if metaphors could be measured in weight, miniscule. Yes. I grew up here in this village till I was old enough to run away. Why?

For one thing, the Lincoln logs I played with at the hey-day of boardgames were supplanted by walrus-tusk instruments and cordials after-bed humpback tourniquets. Tie it tight to stave off the flow to the nose ear eye mouth lungs. A liquid form of everything exists in a liquid form. Last chance to bite down hard on the last chance to bite down hard.

It suffices to say that I needed to stretch it out. Go for a walk. Get moving and grooving on the day, the work load, the load-in time, the laugh track for a new generation. So I ran away.

I left my wallet in Tampa. It had too much wad in it and I said, "No, I leave this behind." And I kept moving. A saunter a sway.