107: Maggie

by Danny James

I broke my adolescence over Maggie Cassidy this past weekend, and until some days, will I be enough to stand and heed the oceans brotherly call, oft where go the great detached on Icarian odysseys of forgetting.

It is a good book that makes me read myself after, and gifts a keepsake of genial sameness with it, when putting it down becomes a sentimental exchange, that though you must walk away, you cannot help but look back for, – like a time, a place, or lover past that sits forever in the fairer shade of memory. Every little paper-backed Universe on the bookshelf is an existence over, with fresh astoundments and none replaced as though born backwards going in, and the space between dawns are but a whelm of sleep.