In the silence that becomes now, it was undeniably clear – there had been things we considered precious. Recalling faces, moments, landscapes. Evenings. Not like nights or day, but poignant equilibria. These felt like memories, or nostalgia, even tinged with griefs or longings, but mother said the past lacks such power – that we were feeling presently. Simon says. Says “grasping after full resonances” by losing them, turning them to language, participant only always in passing. Says “left side.” “Right side.” “Simon says.” I, at least remember. Forgetting, and then the buckled alarm. The tacking it on at the end. Too lately. But not quite. So that all that remained was the grasping.
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