Now its years since your body went flat and even memories of that are all think and dull, all gravel and glass. But who needs them now -- displaced they're easily more safe -- the worst of it now: I can't remember your face.
Return.
For a while, with the vertigo cured, we were alive -- we were pure. The void took the shape of all that you were, but years take their toll, and things get bent into shape... Antiseptic and tired, I can't remember your face.
Return.
You were supposed to grow old. Reckless, unfrightened, and old, you were supposed to grow old.
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