A grave. Open and wide, like a mother’s arms. Water comes in from pouring rain, filling up that gap, as the soil absorbs nothing. He sees the scenery in me, the mirror. The mirror, another one of them, although there is only one of me in this corner of Dan’s room. Only one of me that never leaves. Here, he admires me, or he remembers himself. Scenery gets further shaped from all he recognizes, in himself, in those cracks in his complexion that cannot be damage done to the glass.
He discarded his coat because he was cold, to walk over to rediscover a corner for familiar warmth. I witness intrusions lodged like shrapnel in his echoing soul. Unremovable shrapnel stuck there, like an incurable sickness. If he’ll heal, he will do it in forgetfulness. For who remembers anything, after their death? Who remembers death? Don’t people remember life?
I see a man looking at foggy scenery, mourning before a grave meant for him. His name on a headstone, while no others are nearby. He can be counted. He will be remembered, while he’ll forget his own history whenever he takes that dive.
Modern Romanticism 