As I’m shaving, I think of something we said and I smile in
unintentional imitation of the grin I had then. In doing so, the razor
cuts across my lip.
Because this actually in-the-flesh happened I
can’t call it a metaphor, but I know how easily it could be. Perhaps in
earlier times they named such things omens, though not prophecies but
auguries of the past.
The shower is broken again; it will only go
to freezing cold or burning hot. This, I realise from experience, is a
feature of many showers, but considering how in the past I found a
temperature in between, I can safely call the thing defective.
I
choose cold. It is bearable; unlike the daggers of the other extreme, in
the cold I suffer pain but do not hurt. Or I hurt but am not in pain.
It is hard to call things what they are.
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