Now its years since your body went flat and even memories of that
are all think and dull, all gravel and glass. But who needs them
now -- displaced they're easily more safe -- the worst of it now: I
can't remember your face.
Return.
For a while, with the vertigo cured, we were alive -- we were pure.
The void took the shape of all that you were, but years take their
toll, and things get bent into shape... Antiseptic and tired, I can't
remember your face.
Return.
You were supposed to grow old. Reckless, unfrightened, and old,
you were supposed to grow old.
Return. You were supposed to return.
