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January 21, 2011

There’s a spot in my vision. I think it comes from my left eye. When I look to one side of the room and follow an arch across the ceiling to the opposite wall, I drag with me an imprint. I think it looks like a liquid drop flattened between slides in a microscope, but I can’t look at it directly, for it’s not on my lens. If I ever forget it’s there, it startles me, and then it moves quickly, but never out of the way, never out of sight.

Science says it is just a spot.

What nags at me, though, is that it might be a face. Maybe I should be glad I can’t see more of it, because if I could, I could also see it asleep in a casket, and I’m attached, to some degree, to the flattened liquid drop. My first face-to-face with death is no longer a face.

I drag it with me, pulling it along, over and over, everywhere, across the ceiling and down the walls and across the page.

I prefer this coffee shop, its dark ceiling.

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