Simulacrum

Simulacrum 

Once he longed for the simulation, he became more opaque as though light in its points could not penetrate his substance —what substance there was since the word had ceased to have any meaning for him. He tried to convince himself he wasn't disappearing: "I'm as much as there ever was." He partitioned his being into here and there —as though he were grocery shopping at a store with which he was forever unfamiliar, the aisles turning this way and that way until he couldn't find canned peaches, bottled apple juice, clams, chips —where had he gone? What would others say now that even he had lost his voice with its old timbre? Its old tempo? Once he longed for the simulation, he began.

 

[prose poem]