The most awful fucking beautiful moving pictures flash from the projector at the back of my skull onto the theater screen just behind my forehead, my restless mind the audience between. Therein plays raw footage from past penitent moments – scenes I’d rather not relive. This unmanned reel keeps spinning and it keeps me awake at night, making the room feel hotter than it is, and causing an imaginary anvil to sit atop my rising and sinking chest whose movements grow shallower under the pressing weight of the figment. It exists enough to feel, almost enough to see.
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