I wrote it across the inside of my forehead and tattooed his name on the back of my hand, so I wouldn't remember what I wanted to forget. Like an elephant, fumbling, feeling my way, through the blindfold, larger than life itself, never quite able to sense the whole thing at once.
And all these other planes of consciousness catching my drift, and the miracles that didn't happen to me, impossibly plausible excuses for living like I am. And all these choices I couldn't face to make, or wake to something other than this constant re-arranging my of molecular structure, twisting through my DNA, to prove I never cared anyway, or do I?
Image by Alex Stoddard