That quiet moment in the wee hours when you can’t work any more… the hound of responsibility satisfied for now or at least distracted, gnawing on the bone of exhaustion.
…and you see a Facebook post from an old friend and you go on a little excursion… and there are familiar faces and you wonder when your life became a photo album.
So you trace the timeline back and maybe your heart’s just tenderized by the hour or the fatigue but you start to feel a cavern opening somewhere south of your neck.
And you wonder when it will all fall into place. When will the story make sense in reverse? Will you ever stretch out a lifeline to that boy sitting on a dark hill in nineteen-ninety-something, shivering in the pre-dawn chill, waiting for the future to descend?
And what of this man-thing behind the desk? What will you scream at him across the abyss from a 4AM fifteen years hence, the sound whipped away like a dream where you can only mouth the words?
The world will turn and you will be made new. But here in this silent hour, you will always be lost. Now, then and always: on your knees in the dark, snapshots littering the ground, endlessly shuffling them, trying to find how they fit.