Time, Tirana, and Martin Skyt

King of nowhere

It’s been over a year now since I saw that David Foster Wallace movie at the Enzian, my first outing out in Orlando. There was a bat flying in circles at the top of the theater, and one of the workers assured us that it was just a fruit bat, that they don’t bite, that the film would begin shortly. Welcome to Florida, I thought. Last week I was back at the Enzian, my first time since then. There was no bat inside. The theater is getting ready to expand. Nothing ever stays the same.

It didn’t seem that long ago that, newly twenty-four, I was lamenting how old I was. I complained out loud with Dad in the room. “You don’t know how offensive that is to me,” he said. He was approaching sixty, and he was right. I shut up. Now thirty, I know I’m still young. Still, I…

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