At night when the strings are cut; the only string is an electric cord feeding an electric light.
. . . No, there is no other place.
The electric light presses on the window to keep out the night.
Memory is a string caught in some dark place, beyond even memory; a tangled kite string that will not let the kite rise, even as the metamorphic winds of life will not let it fall.
Thus falls the attention into itself; the sense of the attention withdrawing from the distance; lives in the foreground, having broken from extreme depth.
Chair and table become textures. The eyes grown tactile read the room as Braille. The attention flutters like a moth caught in a room; neither through the window nor into the head of the dreaded self. . . .
All out there the night . . .