How aimlessly my eyes wander from the TV to the wallpaper and back.
A knife of light slicing through the cracked curtains breaks the spell of the anchorwoman.
It is morning again. I have been in bed longer than Proust.
I remember our slow, spiraled dance in hypotheticals: If time weren’t inflexible. If I put a halo over your head, and asked you not to change. If the close-up were the same as the long shot. If I put a ring around your finger and asked you to never cut away.