"Find the mortal world enough." —W.H. Auden
Light's history intrudes on the sentence at midnight. A thought enters like an asterisk over the word ocean.
You are witnessed from the inside, your blood discoursing with itself over ethics and science.
It's the same you draped in the crease of a flag or over the moon, lost in the footage of newsreels with your bobbed hair and inevitable luster of a different era.
On the wall near the accustomed view, your hand is silhouette. The image arrives without its reasons, a stone's throw from remembering. In the summer house near the pier, nothing crashes except vagueness and circumstance.
The last train leaves its station without analysis. You've seen it before in a film, the present recognized from its legend.
All endings are preludes--the evil man came to harm before the story cast its light on the screen you watched with worry and regard.
You tie one end of your question to the other. The answer lapses into knowing and sundering, one cloth sewn as the other is ripped.