Reading this morning I noticed a little diluted black spiral dot in my vision. A few minutes ago, I looked at my hand, and saw it again, slightly towards the right of the centre scope of my sight. Normally I don't notice it, I suppose because I often process things further away from me, and when I read, half my vision, that is, the imaginary proportion, doesn't recognise the activity as just regarding black ink on an off-white page.
When I was young my grandmother told me not to look directly at the sun; at times, daringly, I would take a squint and then close shut my eyes as the glare readjusted reds and greens and yellows, the climate or rainfall map of the eye's geographical regions fading to a bright black. Maybe this is a spot left from the moments of that, a mole, freckle, or beauty spot that I, as opposed to everyone else, can see.
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