I know of a certain woman whom in fact I do not know who has been to most places in the world I have been to in or around the same time I was in those places. I do not know her name. I do not know what she looks like. I am simply aware through peripheral writings and accidental information that we have often been in the same places at more or less the same time, and moreover this coincidence has extended throughout our lifetimes, from childhood to at least the most recent decade, ranging from the wilds of Oregon to barren Manitoba, to Northern Virginia, and to the island of Bali.
Why? How does this work? Is this simply why coincidence is called coincidence, or does coincidence itself become something more complex, something that strives toward meaning, something that carries out its own search, becoming mysteriously personal? Are we connected in some fateful way, parts of some knowledge yet to materialize; or are we citizens of two parallel universes, the wheels of which routinely touch and spark a brief light in the blackness of the void? In this world, do we fail to coincide because of ill-fortune, the failure to look to the right when we should have looked to the left, or do we fail in some things because we were never meant to succeed?
Who are you? Why are you following me? What did you mean by basking on my stone under the same summer sun in the same blue sky after the frigid atoms of the water had warmed themselves on our mutual skin?
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