post 16

(- the dying man in me falls, something to do with memory/grief?
- reprise theme of cycles
- counterpoints are forgotten, vanish too, leaving lone stimuli without context
- end on dramatic, yet metatextually ironic, counterpoint of "fifteen steps" ("then a sheer drop")
- end with this somehow)

The Gloaming

Even my blog posts, scattered free and indirect though not speech, disappear. Once thoughts have been written down, once images and sounds have been transcribed and forbidden from vanishing, I may delete them as I please. 

                                                                                    , this act of contrition transforms me into a counter-demiurge, able to destroy what memory had created.

Detail from Le Temps Retrouve

This is all that is left of one I once knew. He, too, has vanished, leaving behind a bowl of cigarettes standing atop a tower erected to remember a marketplace long gone.

Walking shadows

If I don't write it down, it will disappear. I found this out by accident, and before the revelation I had nearly grown to resolve the ephemeral truth.
The shadows, imposing, of each strolling wanderer a mental melody in me make. When the sun beats its contrapuntal eye and I recognize the rhythm to its waves, it is already two hours since my shift began as curator. I am not dozing, merely dead. I had used to be all right, and nothing had changed except my capability to change-- this is the thought I entertain as I watch the light echo off of every tourist's gait. Do I, like they, cast darkness behind me under the light? Soon will come the gloaming, hic cubat edilis and his fifteen steps; then I will look behind me. I, too, am edible, as are all to the worms. Those who have no bones. Who eats them when they have gone? (It is not long after that the tourists have passed, leaving their shadows behind to stare in my window. Not long after that, I cannot recall their faces. Eventually the tourists have left this material plane entirely, leaving only me.)