the order (in which things are broken)

Words like rescue and tenderness and forever and don’t go.

The things I experienced, written on my cells as memories and patterns, a record.

All of them broken, all of them saved, in one- to two-minute narratives packed tightly into small spaces.

It begs the question: Why did I save this? What is the value of this? What did I intend to do with this?

Did I think all of this was just going to be safe forever?

When the original has long since passed away from this planet, all we have on this earth, all we are, is a record.

And on and on we copy.

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