Bloomsday.

The sixteenth of June. That is how I know you best. L. What steps were those that fell. What are steps? Marking some steep precipice, edging toward, or against, or away from arrival. I never told you this, but I think of you as the streets of Ulysses. I never told you because, still, I can not decide whether I am walking your streets, or whether you are walking mine. Leopold Bloom. L. Some stringy metaphor, but one of metonymy, a book that spells out some epic, some daily epic, where each day awake requires a return, one to recall, to relearn existence. And I know your each return. I know when you walk my streets, because you make a different sound on the sidewalk. In the forever of an epic, we walk towards each other. Our steps are wrapped about the legs of one another, their course of bones, their coarse surface. And I know you know other streets. I know how you know them, how you have enveloped them into your habitus. And I think you know that how you live, while that body lives, you will always bear the marks of my mouth, my print, my footsteps. My writing. Our city.

The everyday bursts. It leaks, honey, the wet melancholy of truth. Every day a return. It turns upon your every day. Each is a day of birth, and in each a rebirth of myth that shapes the arches of every step, heaving against the bones of what is knowable. That piece of knowledge is laid out on velvet cloth. Parcels to weight the clock of each day. And each day, the sixteenth of June.