It was a life apart from life, or so it seemed,
in which you attempted to make it all
appear to yourself as it might to the viewer,
a pleasure it was impossible to escape.
You could just about keep it in your grasp,
examine it as if it were a rounded sphere.
But once you’d held such a thing you had to move on,
unable to break it up into parts
or translate it into a series of vignettes
which would seem like the ones from which you fashioned it,
the ones that were never meant for the stage
but had simply taken place, either in your life
or in the proximate lives of those dear to you,
who had passed into further lives and deaths
but desired to keep you company in your dreams.
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