Fugacity

Isn’t it funny how something can seem SO PRESSING AND CRUCIAL ABSOLUTELY A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH one day, and be nothing but a distant echo of a memory, somehow archived in the backwater storage of your mind the next?

How something can twist your innards into cold knots, sit heavy on your lungs and send static all through your brain every waking minute, and then all of a sudden be unable to do any better than act as a “consideration”, not even emerging itself as an image but sending another, tangential, one in its place, dusty and faded?

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