he seemed a young man, younger than they, as if his eye would never grow old and it carried him along, subtly renewed.

Can loss be that one thing safe from corrosion, the inevitable wasting away that all other things present to us are subjected to? The loss of one eye has given this man a multitude of stories: its disappearance, its creation and creator, gratitude and shame, its theft and return.

What we lose, or cannot hold onto, has floated into myth and narrative; what we have will slowly turn to dust. Living forever in the palace of memory, the impossible and foregone stay apart and a part of us through all the days, even as we enter evening, twilight, dusk.

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