These pages on my screen, hard-drive bits aligned with soft cerebral shadows, changeable with keystrokes, as memory with time. “probsbly right,” I read and grin, almost fix it, but then, it’s “probably” and “possibly” mixed, and let it ride, in bits and brain alike. Time, the jailer’s tool, squeezes present toward the end, And finally frees the space. Events and deeds, some never said, never read, typed tonight, fall to recording head, and sleepy eyes to bed. A musty album of decisions crafted, acts and actions that created me, not fact, but verisimilitude I’ve learned to trust.