I have a picture of myself
and it is younger every day.
My younger smile is happier
and less joyful; more sinful
and less guilty; more earnest
and less sincere than that same
smile, the day before.
I think it is because I cannot move
through time, but time moves through
me, and so I grip the present like a
train grips a track, and the past
recedes into the distance until it drops
off the horizon into sudden...
Sleep.
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