now it's my turn. I feel no different. No one else remembers that name but me. I don't know how that makes me feel. It's like objectively, the whole thing never happened, that it was another machination of my own will.

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my skull is heavy in my head. It solidified into copper some time during the night, and whenever I walk through my days, my head bobs this way and further, and on the sides of streets, people glance for a few seconds before returning to their own thoughts of hardened skulls within their own sloshing head-cavities.

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'shepherd me a sheep, I, near my god, beyond my hopes, beyond my fears, from death into life,' as i remembered it wrong, bone rattle in a brick alley three years this thursday.

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the division between days, illusory, quietly reclines itself between us, so deep and historic that our eyes see it time immemorial, forgetting that it is itself one continuous day, the breadth of it, this our time, that if left unhindered, it would have extended sloping and tumbling in its eaves and want of stars sailing for a morning. you and i were both there, for we were the nascent point from which all the souls fell from.