When you look at your life & whisper, “Oh no, that’s not it; that’s not it at all.” But also, though you can so easily see what it wasn’t, you haven’t one single clue to what it was. Except for these indistinct images with their horizon lines invisible but seriously aslant, in a format no one uses any more. They’re disconnected—from you, each other & everything else. How can they be compiled—at this late, malign date—into a record of anything.

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