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  • He turned to the page for comfort, for ease.

    He'd feel something. A jerk of heat. A spasm in his brow. A pinch at his cheek.

    And then the words would come.

    His voice.
    Not his voice.
    Clearly though. Clearly.

    Memory goes stale, fades. Memory runs from its pursuer. The pursuer longs for completeness. Memory in turn evades.

    His words taunt memory. Ten times brighter, ten times sharper.
    Repeated again. Repeated again.

    The past interferes with present.
    His ex-lover's disgust. His father's disappointment. His neighbor's fuck you hello.

    Connected to nothing, relevant to nothing.
    Suddenly their words
    All he hears
    The harshest his own.

    Awkward in the company of others. The wrong thing. The wrong thing. He said the wrong thing. And everyone knew it. They laughed after he had left. They are laughing now.

    The page, a place to exhaust the sounds.
    Letters, the trap for that which he wished to discard.

    "Leave me," he'd mutter. "Be gone."
    As though there were a thing to command.

    Leave me. Be gone.
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