How I dread those padded volumes, oversize reams of bookshelf ballast; plastic sheathed broad heavy sheets encased in slick embossed faux leather.
Entrapped within, each passing fails, each gain reduces, not then, but now -- or if then, more so -- flash yanked from the gentle scattered drift of faithfully flawed recollection; flat-stripped of two, but two dimensions rest.
How could that not scar which, growing still, in chemical harvest, now was but once?
I don't need to wake the rancid death of fading stasis.
