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  • "It feels late" he whispers as he walks into the kitchen to make a pot of tea.

    Glancing at the hand carved clock with digital numbers formed in small green lines he reads, 12:45. For the first time he notices the 1 is made of two lines, while the 2 is made up of five. The lines are all the same size no mater what direction they go, he is fascinated for a moment. It is as if those lines where in some shape or form speaking to him about direction, spacing, or movement in the still.

    "12:46", they blink into a new shape. A new minute. He witnessed time moving to the present. While his thoughts focus on the past.

    He turns toward the sink holding the teapot he purchased while living abroad in China. This item is one of the keepsakes he has made a part of his life as a way to remember. Reaching out for the faucet's handle his focus scans the room across the counter. The lights above the table dance in the darkeness, reflecting off of the glass table top into the emtpy room. His painting of the artist Jean Michel Basquiat comes to life and in the silence speaks volumes of his influence and aspirations of greatness.

    Canvas. Paint. String. Voice.

    The pot now overflowing runs down his hands like a brook runs over rocks after a storm. Life is escaping in liquid formations from a beggining to an end, like the brush strokes in the painting. He slowly pulls his head back, taking a deep breath as his neck cracks and pops in the single motion. Exhale. Memory.

    It has been almost 8 years. Friends are gone. The smell is vacant. The memories are fresh. His heart is slow.

    "Damn....tea, right", he speaks aloud as he regains focus.

    He turns off the faucet, pours excess water from the tea pot and turns towards the stove.

    "1:01", he whispers and laughs silently so that he doesn't wake her up.
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