I have clear memories of Hale-Bopp, the comet.
It was 1997, we also had a commemorating t-shirt. Can't remember if we had bought it, or if it came free with something.
We are on our way; on two ways: the two tails of a comet. The gas tail and the dust tail, canceling our footsteps into the night.
It clicks and it sighs, coughing in the arduous task of starting itself. Engines can't start themselves: neither could a comet start burning without passing close to a star. A story makes no difference: it has to overcome that starting torque to start running.
To roll down a slope, to loose potential. To descend from the Olyimpus of ideas into the gutter of life.
Multiple stories must happen at the same time to make one, and every story is the sum of more. At least, there are two: the dust tail and the gas tail. Plasma bursts and sand cocktail propelled into the night to form a single comet, to be it. Unfolding our blankets over a dewy meadow and squeezing our eyes at the sky we sense the cubism of information.
The car was proceeding at a steady pace on the highway. Its occupants, wearily contemplating raindrop patterns on the windscreen, were more bugged by the lack of signal rather than by the wipers malfunction. They've been talking for a while, searching for a topic to deepen: it looks like it won't happen anymore now, but silence brings new ideas.
"How can the car drive itself if there's no signal?"
Their puzzled looks lay on a deaf dashboard.
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