Where have I seen this before? A page in my imaginary history swats open, and I run my mind’s eye down the lines of worn text. There was love, somewhere, and I must say of myself that I have never been completely without it, however much I complained that I was stranded. But the lines of that face, the situational physics of this whole phenomenon, the interplay of light and shadow (like the world were specifically trying to tell me something of the nature of what we see, and what sees us): something in me recognizes something of the eternal bit of us that we have on loan from God. And then I look away for a second, and look back, and there is nothing out of the ordinary about anything here. Or perhaps that is the trick? To notice what we don’t notice, because we see it all the time, what memory stubbornly will not admit into its doors….
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