Although it is true that narrative is a myth we impose upon history, it sure feels like some days are scripted.
Maybe not even some days, but some hours, some moments, a heartbeat. Every light grows feathery and there’s an edge to everything that is knotted into an intricate infolding that pulls you in and in.
You see yourself looking at yourself in the mirror and it pulls back to a thousand miles from anywhere and opens out into
your eyes. And it feels like this is the moment, this is the only moment, this is when it all is.