I hear the plucked strands of a fisherman outside. A spray of reality pressed into a five-bar outline.
I lean against a dusty door frame and remember mantras of mold. I wonder what my voice was laced with, Then. The hall and the room are empty, Now.
I walk backwards through the architecture of memories. Each epiphany of idiosyncrasies is one I didn't notice the first time. Yet they're no clearer even without the obstruction of heartstrings.
11:36 p.m. - 2014-08-21
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