The way the light hits the golden grasses of the understory beneath the mature trees in the woods while I ride at lunchtime breaks from the hospital reminds me of the montado in Portugal and that time I traipsed around it with a notepad and a camera and a bicycle.
And the days right now feel endless and timeless and formless like these run-on sentences, grounded only by the precarious and precious hope for life or peace in passing and the habitual narcotic of Traveling at the Speed of Bike.
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