When you wear an incorrectly powered contact lens on your left eye, inadvertently or purposefully in my case, your eye forms red tangles. It is blood. Oxygen-filled. A hundred days old. Circulating within erupted venules, and chirping away songs of the spring of 1989. There are polished edges near the lens, that have voices. Record-keeping, and narrating; there are memories in your eyes, like in the twang of your vernacular. It is the time for harvest -when you sit in silence, balm on your head, drinking coffee, and think about making mistakes.
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