Jalada

A room stands in the middle of a man so bare, it and he appear vacant. The sun bends through curtains, the curtains bend back, each bend a blade of fire grass reaching in to ray and reclaim the house. The morning cold rises heavy like lost sleep. The world is turning. Everything is still.

There is a life beating heart in this house. Its butterfly wing sound reaches the man and rests on the nape of his neck: the tentative motions of a heard child body, the hesitant early life exertions which are always a surprise to witness, the discovery of a familiar waking child.

He glimpses a moment of his childhood: he is lifted into the air, weightless ascent from the ground, a secure flight away from the acuteness of limited childhood; that rising up into sun and light felt like immortality and had within it the believable…

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