There’s something of a beforetaste hovering about a story told one two many times.

You tell it and you tell it in the pregnant hope that you’ll manage to juice some shard of sense from floating temporal order.

You cloudly dream of using said shard to at least carve some artful ding out of moldy past, something only you could’ve come up with, yet
you only end up with the same parade of dominoes that won’t ever flow-fall: I am, I am not, I want to, I want not to, It aches to be, It aches not to be, let me live, let me die