-Aristotle
The River of Woe. The phrase appears in the mind's eye, seemingly from nowhere.
Words, images of books, dusty smells. A library. Remembering the crisp feel of paper, the crinkling sound of pages turning.
Gentle, quiet laughter, and the hint of vanilla in the air. A gentle touch on the wrist, and a glimpse of a smile as bright as the sun.
Blink. As antiseptic smells overpower the memory. Wincing at the rough, fast succor to the skin. Words, distant and muffled, urging caution and mild rebuke. Cold metal table.
Limping easing into a more confident stride. Step onto the street. Breathe again. Hackles rising at the discordant noise which covers nearby pleading.
Close the eyes. Find a new ocean. A new shore to settle. Anything but this dreadful, heavy concrete wasteland. Shift the feet.
Open the eyes.
Shit.
Still here.
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