Memory is an act of destruction, the text intones as the flames curl across Aurelius's script splashing letters upon betters.
Rewrite what won't take, hold the quiver deep in your sole and know the distinction between mediate and meditate as the tee time crumbles crumpet by crumpet. This is the lie now: that gestation in a micrcoscale may extend until you recollect how you came to hear the words not spoken.
The ink bled as the flames spill. There was never a question about what happens next. Eight hours to complete the task, some say that is enough and some don't have enough room to talk. Be still, there is no accounting for taste. The tip of the hat to the top of the mourning, a smile meant to make you forget the pain, a mean stare before the answer.
Don't think about it. That makes it worse. The beauty is, that it is all ready, thought out and thought in, the heart of the matter will stand once the thought passes the imp's cross askance.
And soon she could not comment any further, and soon: she could not.
And sooner she would.