At times a passage can encompass an entire novel; this is in reference to time and data, and what becomes of both together. For instance, while walking in the cold between halls on the way to class my boot lace came undone. I looked down, inspecting below at the snow and ice and loosened lace, and said aloud: SON OF A BITCH! Students walked around glued to their smartphones, stuck in their music, or in general avoiding me; as a river would a rock. My grandfather had used this same phrase endlessly throughout the day when I was young and I would ride with him. Now, as I bent down in the broad-daylight of the winter sun I heard a familiar voice say, “Hallo!” I turned to see a German professor I had had the previous semester. He said, “Happy New Year…” and darted away on the sidewalk, his backpack slung over one shoulder. I longed to catch up and chat, but alas, I knotted my laces and took my time. That was an instance; I thought of my grandfather and German Language Studies, and of the movies my professor had been in (A Serious Man). This phrase became a short passage, a novel, inspired by a bootlace. Son of a bitch, I thought, und so weiter.
It was fate.
Kind of like the best photo-bomb ever.