Unnamed

The constant bending of the fence, as if she could not choose a direction, as if she fears the irreparable and definite damage that will come with choosing a direction, though a similar (is it more? is it less? This question is maddening, and yet, pointless) damage is caused by indecision as well--

Is it possible to wake up in such vastly altered places without realizing how one got there? We do not always remember how we fall asleep, but surely, after that moment of strangeness, we remember it is Friday, we remember, generally, what we did in the week, or what we must have done in the week, because it is what is generally done every week.

Is it possible to forget a whole week? Not the week itself, but a thready progression that runs through it like a smear--

I do not think this thought has any relevance to our subject, though I may have started with that intention. I must remember to tear this page from the study, too.

She moves, sometimes, in the enclosure, as if she intends to forget certain motions, certain actions; and we know she must, because the next day, she does them again, though each time, a little altered in order to forget. There is nothing in the actions themselves that suggest a reason for this peculiarity; it must be some motivation behind it, some thought that must constantly be acted through differently lest its origin be known; there is something disastrous in it, but it cannot be abandoned, and so these motions are cautious encounters with it, the alterations to keep it from knowing itself.

Sometimes she thinks of it as work.

Sometimes as penance.

Sometimes as sanity.

It changes from time to time, but always, it has function, whether one of the three or another to suit. That is why it persists--it is allowed to. It is given reason to, reverse ex nihilo. In return for its services, it is not named.