Someday I will disavow all mirrors and shun all well lit places. Someday I will abandon the razor and the writ. The words I left gone before me. The lights left on burning down to smoke. The things misplaced will have their own monument, listing their enemies and pariahs, all the forgotten rendered with a single line. The flesh will dissolve and manifest, a single sigil painted upon the wall. Every moment spurs further multitudes.
The world itself is legion. The world itself is ten thousand paths branching ten thousand times, the snapping of shutters, the greasing of palms. The choice births a thousand choices, the lines of force slipped with one thought, the chains of evidence always broken. The eleventh length the one measure that makes sense of each ancestor. The lucky star burning a hole clean through.
Somehow I lost hold of these stars and reflections. Somehow I fell off of the earth. Out of pace, out of time, healing slower by the day. Aches and wounds compound, nesting in all the holes punched through me. Every word written feels like a little more line fed to a kite already bent deep into the firmament. The thing drawing me out grow farther and farther from sight. The one I was is now someone else, the one I am now only another case of mistaken identity. They crowd and cull, the disinterred and the misbegotten, all pressed between these lines I am reading. A way is taken, the wave collapses, and all the angels multiply. Even the hidden paths are trampled, even the moths shun this last shine.