Floating around my head, I find the image of a photograph heated with a lighter until it starts to ooze and blister, faces and environments running together in a toxic, blackened swirl. That image seems potent tonight; somehow the warm disintegration of memory is too on-the-nose. Along with it there is a noise so numbing, so single-minded in its drive that an intimation of fatalism settles in around the less distinct edges of my thoughts. There is a constant shredding and reconstruction of a dream, as though that is all I can do: what I have to do. I have abdicated my choice and now endlessly go back and tear it open, sift through its guts trying to figure out what part went so badly wrong. Then it must be reconstructed, pieced back together, as best can be remembered, only to obsessively rip it open once again, double-check every wire and gear, making sure it’s all just as it should be. Step back and it is not quite recognizable now, not accurate, not true. Maybe it’s best just to let the memory burn away, sweep up what can be salvaged, and take this tape out of my damned cassette deck.
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