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Remembered this in a slow descent of discovery, brushing off layers of memories until the words strung together. I read these fragments from the past like a journal started in earnest and forgotten about 15 pages in.
What did I want to do with this space? Did I come here to hide, or to show off?
I feel like I’m on the edges of Pompeii, having found a quiet ruin of a house with a slim bar of shade. Hoards of tourists stream by like a colony of bees, buzzing incomprehensibly. I sit inside, bursting full of news, the best news, enough to fill tomes.
The sun god will continue on his path, eventually surrender to night. My bar of shade will move; the guards will shoo me out. These things are sure. Eventually you have to slip into the stream.
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