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The world rolls along its rut, and these things come and flicker. We are at times awake to them; others they are so bright they burn us out of our dreamsleep. Mostly they flash and darken without scalding our sight. For we do not see them. This one has left burnt out marks in my vision, trails of light. It might be a woman, cradling our child, an infant, and there might be a smile and laughter. The older one runs in the grass, his hair a tangled and sunlit mess. Blue warmth and air. It’s a broken and discontinuous scene. Now here. Now not. There. Gone.

Categories: Asides.

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