I decide I need a tab, as they say.
American Spirit: ingredients: water and tobacco.
And some kind of paper, right?: I wonder.
The point is moot as I have already inhaled the combustion of fire to leaf.
Why are you smoking when all you really want is to be walking, Little Wing?: the No-One man asks me.
Because I need to clear my mind and grease the wheel. So, I can count to ten.
Prove it: he says.
One is zero and unity. All and everything. I learned this lesson in the woods, whilst listening too hard and asking too many questions.
Two is a perfect number. Mathematically speaking.
Three is a trinity manifested in a pyramide.
Four is a group that trains themselves in martial arts, as advertised.
Five refers to commercial success. Why?
Six makes me recall you, beast. And what it is to rotate this figure about the x-axis.
Seven reminds me of a trinity of 7’s, of Parzival.
Eight is hate not so far past.
Nine is three, six, and itself. This was the universe to Tesla.
And, ten? Ten is an order of magnitude. Ten makes sense for orientation.
Ten let’s me catch my breath: I concede to him.
I near the entrato the condo and a Vietnamese couple pulls aside me in their SUV.
How do we get to the coast?: the driver asks me through his cracked, automatic window.
Take a right at the stop sign, then, at the fountain on Main Street, take a right.
It is a roundabout.
Thank you. How lucky you are to live here: they say, after we struggle through language barriers and we repeat the same sentences between ourselves six times in total.
Yes, I am lucky to stay here: I reply.
I wave as they speed to the stop sign.
I told you that I needed to walk the block: I tell the No-One man.
He rolls his eyes.