measured and wrought

The man who can’t bear to remember (or forget) thinks proximally. It is the blistering glare of the sun that keeps his world clear of everything but his present, that chains the shadows to the corners and illumines a path that holds his daylight duration to a straight line of optionless pragmatism. Routine, and the memories are at bay, structure and the whole of his existence can be measured and wrought and whittled down to the necessary obligations of rent and food and allowed luxury.

But the night. The night is its own mystery.

The shadows, laden with voices and images, cease lurking and become a sea.

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