Part 32

In later years.  I became an archivist.  The past.  All l have. We were south facing windows.  Mid to late morning. The sun gaining height. The last days of March.  Cold air.  Bright blue skies.  Music. Connected us.  Sometimes single songs. Now. Your home.  My hippocampus.  Our relationship.  Built into a temporal lobe.  Episodic memories. Formed. Indexed. To be. Later accessed.  


Indian strings. 

Fall on ears like late autumn leaves. 

This boy. 

Detached. Dormant. Dead inside. 

This girl. 

An adolescent in an encampment.  Built for those from far away. 

She plays music.

Emotions hidden in outskirts.

Behind boundaries and borders.  

A repertoire on a sitar.

He listens. Is moved.


A boy.  Eyes.  Cinematic memory machines. Filming feelings. Future flashbacks.  In this scene.  Walking up a hill.  Houses either side.  A boy who is semi-detached.  From himself.  Detached. From others.  And.  For a grown woman.  To undress.  To hold.  To humiliate.  Ingratiating her well used mouth against unaged skin.  Touching herself below.  Till it is over.  Then the blackmail.  The anger.  The hate.  The door.  The steps.  The houses either side.  The hill. The scene.  This flashback. Eyes. The archivist.








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