intothetardis
This world is made out of snippets and traces of things long gone and unremembered. There’s a ring on the table from some old cup of tea that I forgot I had, and a crusty residue desperately clinging to the counter from a snack so many hours ago, about to be obliterated by a damp napkin without a second thought. This world is made out of faded marks. That bruise from the desk, that cut from the knife, that book flung into the corner with resigned hopelessness and mounting anger at anything at all. In a minute, hour, week, someone will pick it up, shake out the pages, , and never even wonder why the cover is bent. An unnoticed zero in the grade book for missing assignment, kept in the folder with your letter, and the salty residue of a tear that dries as I finally sleep.