As though the room about me were the unique stilled instant, the lottery winner among instants, in which the utter chaos, the whirlwind, had achieved a fleeting, accidental pretense of order; only seeming to continue into the future and the past because, of all instants, only it is unlikely enough to be so perceived.
        All familiarity, false. All implication, accidental.

        Through the air whirls a photo with a caption that it's of a stopped clock taken at precisely one of the moments when it coincided with the right time at the instant of the taking of the photograph. The reasons for this choice.
 
        And in one's imagination the flying debris seems as perfectly arranged as furniture carefully chosen and acquired over a lifetime, as familiar sheets folded and put away.
 
 














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