So the difference here is: demur and lemur.
So the difference here is: what I thought of January and what I think of February.
So the difference here is: thirty-plus-something to thirty-plus-something. (No difference here.)
London infects me; I listen for the noise of difference. This or that. Dark or light. Those were my cue cards not so long ago. Open a book, turn to a random page, and read there: This is not the book you meant to open. Find the other one.
And you go back, and you open the other one, and it is the same words on the same page, perhaps in a different font, a different point, a dog-eared crease, a faded pencil-mark.
The word “unlike” runs through my head. I picture it sliding down neurons like melting butter. Unlike the year before, but it is like. Unlike is the promise we wonder about, the choice we didn’t make; or it is the choice we made and forgot, leading us up to the moment where we turn the
page. The same page. The same words.
Again, unlike. Again: unlike.