It's the boat plowing in its own furrow, the waves gradually striking the shore, though where it's gone one can't tell anymore- into the past, or into tomorrow? or it's like a falling star, perhaps, that drags after it a droning wake, its own memory striking stone in fire-flakes- sobs erupt from the volcano's collapse, and only when a whole shard makes its presence known out of the heap of dead fragments do words burst forth with memories together to construct what was sealed until then into the world's mysteri ous glass, broken again always, and always forever.

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