(A FB memory from five years ago. We are beings made of stories.)

I crumpled into my hallway. Faint voices dim light. Lifted carried rolled. An operation then three. I think. Pale memories. ...moments. This happened is happening is always happening. Yet so little is remembered. Cold tiles. Invasive procedures gales of pain. Soft steps. One rides with it not against. Like pods of whales like braces of dolphin. Ride the bow-break glide with it.