These days, teal tinged, are untouchable. Memory, curled and cracked, cannot bear the reality of things past, but instead echo it back in half understood yet intangible forms.

Each night I wonder as I fold threads upon threads over myself, as my mind spins through not only the foggy events of the day, but days and years meshed into a cohesion impossible to work out, but ever present, whether each day is actually a new life. If I will fall asleep this person, freckled, suspended between doubt and decision, and wake up another with all the back stories of this new life wedged in the unsolid mind's memory. This could happen infinitely over and over and I, ignorant and feeble, would never know.