the lost man chronicles
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the heart of my head

It is utterly amusing how a mere sighting of someone can trigger a deluge of thought, naïve hope and wistful fantasy.

Especially if that someone has been purposefully forgotten—pushed out of one’s memory, repressed by frantic activity aimed at accelerating time, so that new experiences might crowd out forsaken moments and all the subsequent pining.

I find it particularly funny how my mind plays cruel tricks on me—making me believe for feral moments that life is the same as it ever was, that nothing has changed since then, and that it would be easy to start anew, to renew and continue from the point where we left off; almost as if life itself could be as easily scripted as a novel about fey lovers who play with fate.

And so the heart of my head is delusional again—dreaming or Circe, of Ada, and of errant minds meant to love together.

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