Through the open window the cicadas reached a crescendo, crashed, and slowly began their chorus again. The drapes billowed and waved, the humid air rustling the pages of a calendar pinned to the wall in the kitchen.

He sat on the couch in silence studying the texture of the wall, leaning back into the armrest.

“I should go.” he said. The truth as a tangible, concrete idea, existing as a platform upon which all things in the universe reside, waiting for words to be layered upon it. 

He thought of a summer long ago when he was a boy, fireflies blinking on and off at tree line. The smell of fresh cut grass and the cool wash cool of air sailing down the mountains at dusk. The world was magic and inexplicable.

Suddenly he felt his toes in his shoes, glanced down at the floor, then to the clock.  He had already stood up to leave, then felt the gravity of the furniture holding him down. Versions of ourselves have embarked on infinite timelines, consciousness is choosing which story to tell.