December 8, 2002
Time pushes me into a corner, probing me with her fingernail. And though my head throbs with the quiet pulsing of my heart, I am forced to spill coherent analogies of those memories scraping against the inside of my skull. I can’t determine if the beating of my heart tics more rapidly than the second hand of my wristwatch, but I am certain of the biting sensations breaking through the skin of my shoulder, though it leaves no mark nor bruise nor stain. Or is it her fingernail piercing me. I cannot see, only feel that certain bound time keeps.