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title
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Adele Evershed


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Masks

I know this time of waiting—I know it best. It is like an old rival-—
demanding attention and always trying to break a person. It remade
the world into a puddle of tea sitting in my mother's cup and it made
me long to leave myself.

It is no better now—sitting alone again trying to peer through screens
and masks wondering when this waiting will end. Yet the old rhythms
remain and my body aches wanting to take me away.

Instead I take down a book. A white moth bothers the light but I leave
it for the break in the silence. I let dregs of tea stain cup after cup as I
turn pages in treacle time and allow myself to be unfastened by a
story not my own.

Under the flower moon an old scent of ruin crawls in my hair. Yet I
can forget there are no happy endings, just less sad ways to die. And
I can make-believe for a moment that the ghost keeping me company
is just a moth...