Sitting in the twilight in the old truck at the railyard.  The last of the Saturday light fading from the sky.  An unseasonably warm November evening, maybe the last warm night of the year.  Car wheels crunching on gravel in the distance.

Someone asked if this was part of a larger story.  Trite, but yes.  Part of the story of my days and nights.

I'm told that some people recharge their energy by being with people.  Others recharge by being alone.  I'm alone for the first time in what feels like weeks.  I can no longer tell in the blur of motion that stretches each day into an eternity.

I've lived lifetimes.  I've lived many lives.  And for the moment, this twilight evening, I'm taking a breather.

This evening.  This cigar.  This old truck.  This body.  This world.

I'm fortunate to be me and no one else.  I'm glad to have this life to live.  I'm not sure at all if I've done this before or if this is my first time around.  And when I'm gone, I'm not sure if I get another chance, or if this is the only one I get.  I'd be wholly content with that.  I don't need another go at it, and I don't need an afterlife.

These moments.  So human.  So animal.  So Earthbound.  All of it.  When I die, don't mourn.  Celebrate.