There was no one to tell when he realized he had built his life piece by patient piece like a ship in a bottle. It was quite a thing to put on a shelf and admire, but he was never going to set sail — this was the part that rose up in him fully formed like last night’s moon — unless he could will himself to move, imperceptibly at first, a building rocking rhythm, a sympathetic vibration, oscillatory, until he might fall from the shelf, momentarily flying, then crashing in a sudden projection of sharded glass.
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