1.30

Time is a taskmistress to whose lash I do not fall, and yet her weals never grow less tender except that I forget them. My mind is growing numb with all the pain it has been has been forced to misplace. The thoughts of her slide from me each time my consciousness happens to chance upon them and misplace them, deliberate, to protect itself, each welt and bruise more tender than the last not for actual pain but for the suddenness and surprise of the encounter.