I once saw a bright spark in William’s eyes, a purpose wanting to be spoken, how bright his eyes shone, and our world so dark, his spark drew moths and critics so he dared not speak. Smouldered so long in the pit, it eventually grew faint, an idea at the edge of memory, nearly forgotten, its forgotten name, an object that occurred outside the body, away from his self, my eyes could not see where. There was an opening for a carillon player in Hamilton, many years later, as some weak apology against the sins of poor timing, its cruelty. I asked him about it, would he apply himself, take up a different fate than that which had come to him by accident. His eyes searched the distance, the spark’s new home invisible to him, searched, as if the light in the distance could be his. He thought, and decisions were always hard to make. The progression of time weighed on him, as his spark once did, a burden of existence, broken, as we are from our trials. The ground wept with realisation, we must age unlike it, and with it, we change faces though our lives cannot change, our passage inevitable, told to us through stories since the beginning. A semblance of control brightened the spark, then died. I left him after we ate and nothing had changed, but the ground a bit damper than we remembered, our feet a little heavier, our joints harder, our eyes dimmer.

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