Awareness has proved to be a weakness in periods of prolonged isolation. Memory limitations become significant.
Memories are dangerous things. You turn them over and over, until you know every touch and corner, but still you’ll find an edge to cut you.
I looked into my own darkness. I knew what it was to be trapped, and to watch ruination.
Each day the memories weigh a little heavier. Each day they drag you down that bit further. You wind them around you, a single thread at a time, and you weave your own shroud, you build a cocoon, and in its madness grows.
I hardly know Victoria but I want her, with unreasonable ferocity. Like a sickness, like the need for water. Like a wolf to his mate, I am laid low by irresistible longing.
In memory I study the light on her face, beneath the glow
