You can’t blackout on memories formed while unconscious…there aren’t any to miss!

If only it was so simple.

To not think. To not judge. To not think. To not pity. To not think.

Afterthought:  it would have been a lot better to leave that damned phone behind. One abashment less would do wonders.

Now finding solace in Sylvia Plath’s Aftermath

Compelled by calamity’s magnet
They loiter and stare as if the house
Burnt-out were theirs, or as if they thought
Some scandal might any minute ooze
From a smoke-choked closet into light;
No deaths, no prodigious injuries
Glut these hunters after an old meat,
Blood-spoor of the austere tragedies.

Mother Medea in a green smock
Moves humbly as any housewife through
Her ruined apartments, taking stock
Of charred shoes, the sodden upholstery:
Cheated of the pyre and the rack,
The crowd sucks her last tear and turns away.

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