his frame of mind was colouredblushedbruised  influenced by what entered what senses were pluckedtickledplayed

  informed

he read in Bruens The Guards

                                 “In reality, time doesn’t pass. We pass.”

a real sourball to suck on

pucker takes a while to pass

                                relax  slip from his face

he gave mirrors a wide berth  refused to suffer their prying eyes   be penetrated

                                                                                     YOU OUGHT TO SEE THIS.

No thanks  Ive got a good imagination

   he was fragile

knew it

           this was that time of the year

he knew he was susceptiblebut  come on

                                             an obscure passagepage onehunredsixtythree

three weeks earlier

three weeks later

wouldnt have breezed him

   however now

he could feel his skin peel

his heart   

              weep

his steps halt

                his footing  improbable   surly

  “In reality . . . we pass.”

1430ish,  Sunday,  25  2. 24

2025,  Sunday