Sincere silence is honest with me, unlike the electricity that wiped my inner hard drive partially clean and diluted my mind. The futile nature of remembering my life smells like a campfire dying in a cold rain. I miss 1999. Not anything about my life in particular that year. Just the world before society lost its collective mind. In the beginning, I came home and slept from the anesthesia. In the evenings, I was a marshmallow. But then I was hollow, unaware of anything but a voice saying “What would you give to raise a child in a world that no longer exists?” Glacial mistiming of fertility and luck. The world ends in an orgy of rage, and we all drown in the torrents of tears. I cannot build my daughter a raft. I sink.
Miniature Moon 