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.
Traveling at the Speed of Bike 