I am intrigued by the progression. A skip to the past (the boy he was) to traverse some fiction production (the lives of the strangers) to land in the present (place). It seems as if the boy himself is a stranger to himself.
Ask the boy he was if he must invent
the lives of the strangers to find his place.
Bruce Bond. “Homage to a Painter of Small Things” in Raritan Vol. XXXV No. 3.
And so for day 1859