by Craig Morgan TeicherI was alone inside a book as I'd wished. It was fifty years from now. I didn't live that long. The book was lost, in an attic, a locked trunk, a storage space, under rubble. It was the last copy, the only. Immortality seemed a memory. My journals were lost or incinerated, those fervent transcriptions and wonderings and hopeful evenings, scripts for wild lives unlived, unloved long since disintegrated. Whatever power I encoded had escaped and moved on. I was neither I nor eye nor lie. No one cared or could. Even what was left of me wasn't. My bones were as brittle as a text, religious, with no teacher. Looking back, there was no future, no future.
