16 November 2006
He had toed the line. No, to the more orthodox, he had overstepped, like an athlete false starting at his first race. Each moment of being was so intense to him these days, and he cherished them like never before, but ironically, this particular instance, this memory, came back swift and fast, and haunted him, almost, passionately. It stuck like an adhesive on his cerebrum, finding its way to the vault where he always, to his chagrin, thought was empty as an abyss but now, to his dismay, where he found the immaterial wisp they called his conscience.
11:08 PM
