A letter to a park and a new place (fiction)
A letter to a park and a new place I think it was some time before it got dark. It was January, so this would have been about 4 o'clock, and I was on one of those walks with its own inertia. Sort of passively following something already in motion. I had taken some Oxycontin and had that great overwhelming feeling of being hugged from inside my skin. The warmth of it spread from my toes up and into my frontal lobe and cast a faint shimmer over the world in front of me. Perhaps it was the hugger inside me that subtly directed my step. I was on a muddy park path lined with naked trees barely illuminated in the winter sunset, and I suddenly became intensely aware of myself. I felt my weight as it distributed itself over each left and right foot, stepping, walking. Acknowledging where my clothes wrapped themselves on my body, where my belt sat on my hips, my jacket on my shoulders and so on. This awareness reached my body hair, my height and other unchanging features of me. It was as
