Why does time sometimes get caught, between caves and coves, on a snag, as if forgotten of its forward purpose, trilling lengthily on the same note, letting select images imprint themselves on the back of our eyelids but not others, when those other images could be just as—if not more—consequential?
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Lydia [Chp. 4]
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Why does time sometimes get caught, between caves and coves, on a snag, as if forgotten of its forward purpose, trilling lengthily on the same note, letting select images imprint themselves on the back of our eyelids but not others, when those other images could be just as—if not more—consequential?