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Memory is a tenuous thing, like a rainbow's end or a camera with a failing lens.
All I can do is lie here, brain turning somersaults. It's nights like these when memories stir, whipping themselves into stiff peaks of pain.
Ghosts don't scare me. Flesh and blood people do.
The wind kicks in stronger, branches clatter. Or maybe skeletons. Bones of abandonment. Ghosts that will never be.
My happiest memories have no place in the past; they are those I have yet to create.