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The essence of detail
in relation to the portrayal
of the past: everything is
fleeting

and all we want is the
memory. We obsess, in
presence, absence.
Recollection is timeless

and there is no parallel
because in all we choose
to remember, to forget–is
the ability to destroy

every hour that defines
this, every border that
defines us. To cope with
everything’s impermanence

we defy what kills all of
us–how liberating! To be a
lone sandstorm scattering
itself, to be so fragmented, so

desultory like desert rain (no
memory ever has a place,
in mind) and I long to be this,
to be loved despite it.

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