A Rough First Paragraph to a Third Re-Write of an Old Novel

In the beginning, there was a remote possibility for future memory. Some of those memories still remain: I carried them with me well before I knew it. Some memories give wings to my most fanciful thoughts, others make it difficult to pull the lightest time-tattered duvet from my weary, half-closed eye as I face June’s early-rising morning star. These words are an exercise, an experiment which weds disparate and conflicting memories to dance, if only for a fleeting fragment of a half forgotten moment.

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