Descent


There must be an explanation. In Einstein, perhaps, or someone later. For how I can relive hours within the sweep of a minute hand, between rings of the phone, between breaths. A physics of thought. Of madness.

The lying calendar says it's been four days since she vanished. I feel ancient, but the lying glass shows me a face unchanged, sinister, like Dorian Gray's.

Like his.

I wear only two splints, but he's broken a hundred fingers. In four days I've betrayed her a dozen times. And I wonder if this is the world ending, if we failed after all.
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