The long, draped coats which hung on the outside of the doors in the spare room would always look like a person, in the shadow of the night. I never gave them much thought during the day. Yet as the shimmers in my eyes grew more intense, moving shadows with flicking tails as the result of retinal bleeding, the transmuting effect of the fabric in the darkness would begin to become somewhat more disturbing by addition, and so the coats would just need to be moved. In the morning I went to touch the black material and my fingers passed right through.

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Revival, Ensuing

Now it is Sunday morning.

The girl has understood that time is stationary. It is experienced only as slices of moments, divisions of samples; borderlines between the needle breaking the skin and having broken the skin, between arousal beginning and ending, between being alive and being dead – all particulars of the present that do not extend or bleed between other moments, but form separate and punctually permanent pockets of time, of stationary time, immovable and irretrievable.

The line of time is a course of pre-defined actions; in recognising this the girl uniquely punctures through the fabric of time and her designated role, causing the collapse of the Universe, and creating time anew.

Now it is Sunday morning.

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