thirteen
It has not escaped my notice that my existence is scarcely credible. The whole thing is shot through with holes. Contradictions abound, as is their wont. I’ve known for a while, but the feeling is growing and it worries me more as the days crawl by.
Knowledge, for example. I seem to know an awful lot of useless crap but have no idea how I got any of this. That myth business, for one. You know, Greeks bearing gifts and all that. No idea. No recollection at all of anyone, anywhere at anytime telling me any of that, and yet there it is.
And then the practicalities, so called. Light, for example. When the day finally gives up the ghost, and after the dusk is done and the true dark begins to gather, I might put on a light. It might be a lamp, it might be a ceiling light. Of course,
