I look upwards at an inclining shadow. At once there is a bodily presence, but also the sun to cause my vision to blear. In each blink, stained red as wine the image of the person before me.

There was once a face that could be there, that I could envision before I would awaken, I suppose. The old wisdom chalks it up to little else than the passing of age. But even so I find myself wanting.

To imagine is to want, the very act a concession.

But what is it to imagine, whether in constant or in the present moment, a certain shape, a certain articulation, like coordinates on a map, the face of another I have long since forgotten?