Pure duration is the form which the succession of our conscious states assumes when our ego lets itself live, when it refrains from separating its present state from its former states....[I]n recalling these states, it does not set them alongside its actual state as one point alongside another, but it organizes them with itself, as it happens when we recall the notes of a tune, melting, so to speak into one another.
Henri Bergson
An attitude, a gist. Remembering being held up and held down. Hands are busy. I'm thinking about the possibility of shaping a feeling of aggression into a fragile act. A beautiful pummelling before the puncturing begins. Full and heavy. Heavy. Nothing. Buried under my own feet. Caught. It is a long long assault. I don't remember breathing. It feels like hours. How, otherwise, can I account for so much fear? The third time is more of shock. Once, twice, on top of my fingerprints. Uncertainty mixed with the frightening. A thought of a thought of a thought. My skin is hot. Half buried. Half alive.