I wonder if I’ve found a way, or if
I’m finding it: if so, it’s surely more
the lucky product of surviving family
extinction than the exercise of wise
examination of the measly evidence
of what is left: scrabbled up like
broken seashells on the beach: sharp
shards of death, what used to be,
beyond my interest or my reach: all
that isn’t any more: except as it may
fuel reliance on – defiance of –
selective memories – those teasing
jabs that pass for Past. Expedience
is all the mind cares for. I have three
choices: sex, or decadently chocolate-
chunked soft cookies, or my first
dive into Proust. My life is mine today,
my dears: that menu is the proof.
.
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