and forgotten? Who remains, when the theatre of recollection is shuttered for the night, and even the actors have stepped out into the cold, blank street? Reason stirs, a faint echo, but cannot quite attach to the world as before. The body breathes, the blood moves, colour, sound and scent arrive unheralded, but the mind receives them as a foundling, with a strange, trembling tenderness. The world is not new, but it is, for a moment, unclaimed, suspended in the space before meaning. How delicate, this equilibrium. Consciousness hovers, a thin patina stretched over the ancient marrow of being, translucent and tremulous…

© KD.W.Heim