comfort and control

It has been so long now, I have only memories. My skin no longer recollects. In dreams these things seem distant, hollow, as though listening to a voice on a long distance phone line.

I am a photocopy of my desire. Endless reproductions of fantasy grow faded and less defined. My senses become measured and restrained. I find abandonment in books and ideas and such sensible things.

The horizon speaks only of solitude and independence.
There is little comfort in control.