You shut the door almost but not quite. Every latch’s lifecycle is limited, a tally attached to tasks. Hardware wears out or breaks. Numbers define objects. In your mind resided reckonings until you apprehended the open-close percussion of synapses and their own ceiling. You convert to handwritten notes but pencils and ballpoint pens make you sweaty with dread. The doomed, filthy drag of friction. Felt tip markers’ hemorrhaging death troubles you less. At bedtime you will your heart to slow. Throughout your youth you’d squandered precious beats. Tonight you sleep swaddled with light and spare the lamp switch.
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