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Allot the past as Eucharist under the tongue, a shivering mechanization. Recall splashing and playing in the pool, the wasp-like familiarity of imprinted design fun time schematics, stingers, the burned effigy of chocolate ice cream face on a damp towel. Resurrect the pool behind grandma’s apartment with the leaves around it and the machine that cleaned it, the turning, the pulling like white teeth in liquid—now, go to the VCR. Are these boxes little skeletons of when with plastic joints? I don’t know. Recount the darkened TV rooms that enact the shrines of our yesteryears on cassette, the smiles of our smaller frames or smoother familiarity like facadisms that looped endlessly the prescience to know then they’d want to see this, but why? I don’t know.