In the confused depths of the evening, beyond any of my childhood thoughts, beyond any of my adult aspirations, beyond anything determinate, I once again find my way here. Only here. The night exhales until all air is gone, until the moon itself is extinguished. Two chairs face toward the window, toward the garden, toward the the sense that nothing whatsoever will ever happen – that fashioning an event is unlikely and impertinent. And all the gates are closed. And only one window is ajar – my bedroom window, which opens on to the clouds and the memory of the sea. And cars still travel past – even at this hour. If only I could find my way within any of this. If only things were less scattered. If only less time had passed. I hear rushed voices in the midst of silence. I see figures meandering about in the darkness outside. The time descends. It plummets down an endless mineshaft, past flickering lights, past the limits of dug systems.

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