It is easy to think about these things, recollections of things passing fast from your grip, and decide they are simply too much to acknowledge. Easy to imagine inevitability when in fact there might once have been any number of options. It was always going to turn out this way, spoken like a charm against pain, against memory. Sweat and sun feel like virtue, like expiation, so now damp and rain feel like failure, like an opportunity for some great act of heroism missed. Better, all things considered, to turn away from the fact of before until the thought fades again, the way a headache can
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