One Million Footnotes

3704. The butterfly bouncing off the window was a pinfeather.

He finally understood the way backward.

 Before he went to sleep, he wrote a note to himself. 

 Before the blinds, he can still see.

 The rain rains the world blurry.

 He heard a snap when he pulled a long white hair out of his ear.

 He had a sense of a sense of wonder. 

The rain hit the black window in a sudden black blast.

 There was a broken piece inside him called his heart.

He tried, with his foot, to pick a triangle of light off the night floor. 

His left arm was numb, so it was possible he would die that night, and that his children would be relieved in the morning.

 He perceived a sense of autumn in the sunlight. 

Fireworks erupt invisibly in the darkness of the harbor.

 He found himself too tired to do anything except write. 

 Grey sky, grey water wide and deep, gray light.

Sunlight, he thought, sinks into the river and harbor.

He couldn't remember what he remembered, only what he had forgotten.

At night, he realized we live surrounded by darkness.

 The tea would not steep fast enough.

 He realized he might die.

 In the darkness, he could sense the light to come.

 The cold air appeared at the very onset of fall.

 Whatever dies, he thought, is replaced by something worse. 

 Outside his window, he saw a statue with a torch looking away from him.

 Not as sound in the night to keep him awake, so he could not sleep.

In the light of day, ships lurked, motionless, in the harbor.

Their view out was cloudy.

The virus seemed to have infected their lives.

He watched light eke into the sky.

Only that evening in an airport restroom did he finally realize the fly added to the urinal’s porcelain was there to ensure men would aim at...

He imagined he had nothing to think about.

He typed his live over again.

She napped as he wrote.

He lay awake thinking of the year of the rat.

It appeared there was sunlight.