Aphasia en Travail

I forgot what I was going to tell you. But then again not much I remember is worth much, not even the thought it takes to remember it. I addle and confuse what most people take for granted, the everyday intuitive things of life, like making toast or turning on and off the kitchen faucet. I do these things with an eye for detail, an eye that sees the detail in the mundane trivialities of life, the travails that most people, or at least some, perhaps, do without much thought, leaving out the detail and eye. For example, I have never met, even bumped into, a man in a hat, let alone spoken with one. Harridans and alms women are pure fictions, mere images, rebuses of an overarching imagination, a segregation of fact from fiction, mere trivialities; dalliances. Bow legged men and the baker at the Cantor’s are make-believe, things I conjured up to amuse myself; frivolities. I myself am a trifling thing, something I conjured up to amuse others, an endnote to an insufferably boring spy novel, a bete noire, a game of snakes and ladders played in the dark, blindfolded and gagged for good measure. It’s at times like this, the times in between, that I truly wish I couldn’t remember, anything, not even this.