Things change.
In society today, images have replaced words. We remember things with a picture, not a sentence. Torn pieces of paper, taped up on some wall that exists in our stomach. Flash. His face in the morning. Flash. My hand on his. Flash. The way he moves in the dark.
At first, I'd always wonder if I was doing okay. I watched myself, watching him, watching me. All the pictures molded together. They'd play in my head like a movie.
"Don't fuck this up," a voice said.
The pictures were close-up, but slowly became wider. The movies left, frame by frame, replaced by infrequent flashes in a big, white place. Lying next to him, I sink some place between dimensions. There's a lot of room. There's quiet.
Once an image exists, etched inside you, it never changes.
Your understanding of the people in the picture does.
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