there’s comfort
in the image of our
digital bits
decaying
to
dust
too
Category: Writing (page 1 of 1)
“Look up.”
Two hands lay palms-down on a brown briefcase.
Scars. From cleats and dirt, knives at the bottom of soapy kitchen sinks, mother’s maroon-painted fingernails. Memories. The only way of knowing one’s actually existed. If you don’t remember anything, you don’t know you’re there. Time. The flowing of time. The true nature of time is a spiral; not a line with a definite start and a definite stop.
“Wake up.”
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