And still, there is a twisting of the consciousness, a remaining disfigurement from her leaving. It is nearly an internal Panopticon — it causes me to observe myself uninterruptedly from center outward to every bizarre detail, in what should by all rights be the utter height of self-consciousness, but for the fact that I myself am unaware at times of the gaze. Where do I go from here, and what do I hold at each extreme that will help me to arrive? Do I ring like a bell? Am I the resurrection?
There is no solace in the indulgence of anachronism anymore; nor in company. I have no idea where relief can be found, or whether I would even employ it were I able to find it. An interesting problem, to say the least.
I’ve bought myself a hat.