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Nostalgic

Illustration by Jack Rousseau

I am an artist of a different sort
My subjects and surroundings are not seen
In colours
But numbers.
My eyes like those of Shinigamis
I see them
The numbers that hang above a person’s head
Dictating how much time they have left
In this adventure
I see the numbers they transfix to me
Registering me in their system
They can find me
Which I find funny
Because I can’t find myself.
Our atoms and cells
Like binary code
Complex and unique, but all of us
Are comprised of ones and zeros
These numbers they’ve integrated into my eyes
The numbers I press
To hear his voice
The number on the door I open
To see his face
The number – the difference between the years on the tombstone
The number that shouldn’t have been so low
And the arm on the clock that has hit
Each number
Over 730 times
By now they’ve given his numbers to someone else
They can delete him from their system
But never from mine

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