“…rivers of honey pure and clear.” [Qur’an 47:15]

I had lunch with Preston today. Well, I was eating. He wanted to talk. But my health matters more to me than words, so I focused on my food rather than him. His voice, a muffled buzzing against my eardrums, was just another reason to ignore him. We finished quickly and I said "thank you" and left. No, wait. I said "Thank you, Preston" and left. He doesn’t like it when I call him Preston. He prefers I use his title.

He apologized as I left.

It was cold and cloudy, but I decided I’d walk home this time. The bus driver wouldn’t miss me now, or ever. He’ll drive his habitual route, permanently ignorant. His job description is “move the masses but stop for no one.” And no one asks if that’s wrong. It just works, so they just work. They’re drones in this big beehive, and one day someone’s going to ask to see the honey and there won’t be any. They can’t produce.

They can only reproduce.

Those busy cars raced by me all the way. They were going places, but so was I. What made me different was that, while all they could see were the other cars, I had time to consider the road they were on.

It was in rough shape.

On the other hand, my sidewalk was covered in mud. But my shoes were dirty from before, and I didn’t have to worry about soiling my socks, because I wasn’t wearing any. So I trudged onward, soon letting my mind fall on other things. Something occurred to me.

I can’t remember what Preston said.

The crown of Wilshire Tower soon came into view over the rooftops of less important structures. That sight of it, the pinnacle of this localized world, the high point sitting over this godforsaken kingdom, reinvigorated my trek. I hurried my stride.

Suddenly the world started spinning.

Losing sight of the building, I panicked. As sleet began raining down on my body, nausea rose in my stomach. I went down on my knees. It didn’t help, and I was sick right there. No one saw it happen. The car windows were rolling up and not coming back down. The beggars were scurrying into their hovels, cursing their hardships. Even that young boy on the corner, who tries every day to seem like a man, was abandoning his darling lemonade stand to get out of this wicked weather. I retched again and the wildest thought came to me.

I don’t have much time left. That’s what Dr. Preston said.

"The sun asks permission to rise again. It is permitted." [Bukhari:V4B54N421]

I left the mosque early today. Too hot and crowded in there, I felt an attack coming on. Nobody missed me; this isn’t the first time I’ve had to slip out. The asthma subsided after a few minutes. Instead of returning inside I sat upon a bench in the children’s playground.

It was no longer night.

I arrived early this morning and the sun had risen while I was inside, but it was still low. I let it ascend a few inches before I turned my eyes, looking across Dusty Bluff to the shantytown that graces the northern side of Wilshire Tower. Those people… the beggars, the criminals, the sinners. The children…

God will save them one day.

My aging bones won’t move if I don’t move them often. So at that time I stood. With no place noteworthy to visit, I walked to the corner of Katz Avenue. No, I don’t own a car, but a hundred must have whizzed by me in the minute or two I spent idling at the intersection, debating if there was a point in crossing to the other side.

I decided to linger on this side for now.

Where are all the cars going, anyways? Work? Home? Who’s got to go somewhere so urgently that they must drive? Who is that busy? Why are there so many cars, so many busy people? So many people? Are they important?

They kid themselves.

I found myself facing upwards, staring into the underbelly of that overpass on the west side. It mocked me with its altitude, so I found the hill leading up to it. It was steep, but I dragged my body and got my clothes dirty. I hurried my climb, because I wasn’t the only one going up this morning.

I was racing the sun.

I made it to the top. Staying on the wrong side of the railing lining the overpass, I scooted along the narrow walkway towards the center of the bridge. There were cars here too, but I didn’t see them. I was facing the wrong way. I was looking over the city block I’d come from.

They were so small down there.

Just as I reached the midpoint of the bridge, the sun peeked over the top of Wilshire Tower. I could see the shadow receding. There was the herd with their coffees. The mules of society. The congregation dispersing to walk the earth. It was a humbling experience, once in a lifetime.

I’m lying. I’ve done that before.