• Vol. 02
  • Chapter 12
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You say you left, but I'm not sure. You say, Have it all, I'm off. But I think you're still here. I look for you under tiles, between sofa cushions. I let the light in as if you might be between the particles. I sweep and sweep the floor, and you may be dust, you could be microscopic, will I need instruments to see you at ever-shrinking scales?

Days and days and minutes and I am unconvinced. I feel you, I hear you - although what you say to me is that you've gone, is that I'm an idiot, I'm wasting time. And you don't look at me the way you did.

I check everything again, pick up tiles and cushions, let light in, light out, clean the floor, and then I bend. Perhaps you're right, I say out loud. But we both know, and together we sit, with moons and caterpillars, beams and cross-beams, neutrinos spinning through and through and through.