He lay still and remembered. He remembered long nights and short thoughts, long spaces and short dreams. He heard his pulse, staggered his beating heart, shallowed his breath. His knees trembled, his hands clenched, his ankles were cold and his wrists were warm. He remembered movement through still water, movements through tall green grass. He remembered a hand trailing through dead leaves, lips on his neck. He sighed...contentedly, these were making times, connecting/disconnecting times. Rivers were offered at a distance, blood running down the wall. He heard the slide, heard the walls tumble effortlessly in tandem with his thoughts, his breathing, his pulse. So he remembered the photographs of self and others, faded colours, ripped edges. He remembered drawers full of pencils and paper clips, drawers of fossils and shells - all reminders and nothing. He remembered sharp horizons, and subtle sunsets. He remembered it all, and he remembered...he breathed slow, and he breathed even. Hands clenched, knees trembling.
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