#79

The picture on the wall of a man is not a man but a boy, and the brushstrokes are a deception and the image is nothing but imagination; not my imagination with its spilled paint but the unsteady hand of creation draughting me in amongst all of its chaos.  It is a year cast as a solitary day.  And I know to eternity I am just a solitary lifetime.  I am a year turned into a day.  I am the crumb of bread brushed from the table to the floor in preparation for the next diner.  I am nothing, and yet whilst I am alive, as something I am spectacular.  It is overwhelming to feel as though you are both the eye of a needle in a haystack and the eye at the centre of a storm all at once.

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