HOW WELL YOU ARE FED ON YOUR OWN FORGOTTENNESS

Forgetting rests as a fear of itself, a fear of reverse circuitry, a fear that the second to last legerdemain will be dehydration, a fear of the arteries of absence.

Meanwhile you continue mistaking their veins and the traces of waste being carried away – being taken away, never gently – for your own circulation, and you fail to know how well you are fed and subsist on your own forgottenness.

It is as if you are certain your memory grows as a resemblance that could drown you, your daily dilemmas of the right and real and familiar, your inability to look at any river for long, as if you are worried of seeing the same water pass in which all of your recollection was born and which now swims slowly alongside you, charting a hundred courses daily and following none of them.

But as with any submersed mnemonic trace, your forgetting recognized becomes a promise in the new day, a will to health in the form of a simulation drinking water while being filmed watching another simulation drinking more water who is, in turn – clearly – watching another simulation being filmed drinking even more water.

There is no modern version of your forgetting, no liquid remnant to be collected and reviewed then thrown back on the mud, no water table defined other than temporarily, not even one single spot where a well may be dug, no spot forgotten that remains unfindable in its singularity.

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