31 October 2005

ATARAXIA   There is a tune half-heard, bent around a corner half-remembered.  Mum leans forward out of the wheelchair, makes to speak. Distant bells, a Crosby song, something whistled once in a dark street in the rain?    The story fades to grey; she dropped it somewhere, cracked it, missed the point, some crucial phrase that ran into the fog of her once-hearing.  Or it slipped, maybe, beneath the measure of the tune, half heard.   10:30:47 PM    Mmm? []

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