Put all their faces in one album, all their sentences in one story. They know nothing of each-other, though each is known by me in light of the others and I’ve made of them a crowd, an intimate circle. Have drawn them close as the strangers they are and will remain to each other.
In tidbits and nuances they maintain a sinuous, continuous, tightly-knit persistance. A reservoir of experiences, the fainter lines of its preliminary sketches erased for good. Known once by me only, and now lost.
All we see and build off of is its final construct, architecturally sturdy but its different parts flimsy, fictitious. As a whole, recognizable by none of them, though each can probably see a corner or carpet that was taken from them, or a window to stick their heads through and partake.