I am late and for reasons unclear this calls to mind the strained whispers of old gods and dead kings desirous of remembrance, despite their fiction. My time is kept by the light of stars and the pull of the moon, by paycheck, by fickle buses and loping trains. I disavow any era that begins mid-winter as I stumble hurriedly through the dark waiting for the world to turn my cold face to the sun.
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