Thoughts race, as if, in a mind devoid of memory, each idea has too much space to grow and move, to collide with others in a shower of sparks before spinning off into its own distance.

What are we, if not an accumulation of our memories?

Work. Write. Read. Keep putting words on the page, because that's the only way you'll get better.

With him everything is a test, affection is measured, that given weighed against that which has been received, and the balance, more often than not, disappointing him.

Thoughts race, as if, in a mind devoid of memory, each idea has too much space to grow and move, to collide with others in a shower of sparks before spinning off into its own distance.

I feel like he's taking advantage of me. Advantage of my illness. He thinks he can rewrite history in any way that he likes and I will never know, never be any the wiser. But I do know. I know exactly what he's doing. And so I don’t trust him. In the end he is pushing me away, Dr. Nash. Ruining everything.

Whatever enjoyment I might have had at the time would disappear overnight like snow melting on a warm roof.