You are out

You are out ahead of the day. The action that becomes living is the repeated recognition of your old traces upon the blinks you awake in and the repeated surfacing of the objects that catch you, tie you into rooms and streets, and flood you, within awakedness, with the subtle horror of routine. You have been here before. Deep indoors the light is the same. There is a controlled avoidance of character. Your forearms rest on a smooth table. Your hands track around an apparatus. It supports a pair of shoes. Your hands are in one of several positions in relation to each other and the shoes. There is no gradation of light across the vast ceiling. Every moment is an interchangeable tract of configured elements, stained irrelevant objects, and exits into guilt, emptiness, or the next tract. They do not fall out of sequence and they all occur. When you blink through them they line up in blinks. When you sleep through them they line up from the beginning, anxious and frigid. The end is useless. It is the beginning with more guilt, more left in the world awake. The light is the same. The beginning is terrible. The locations of all of your mistakes mar the moments in which they fell, inconsequential to you until they later ruin the lope forward when you are caught on things, the shoes and your hands, the sunlight high on the wall, the mug of tea, your reflection, her eyes. It is best to let the flow of routine pull you where it will, or to stay ahead of it, looming int he next dusk, always ending with the foaming flotsam, with its secrets and accusations, never mucking through it.

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