The palest ink will endure beyond the memories of man

For what is a person without memories? A ghost, trapped between worlds, without an identity, with no future, no past.

A raintree bent towards a window in one side of the bungalow, eavesdropping on the conversations that had taken place inside over years.

Memories I had locked away have begun to break free, like shards of ice fracturing off an arctic shelf. In sleep, these broken floes drift toward the morning light of remembrance.

Die while I can still remember who I am, who I used to be.

The palest ink will endure beyond the memories of man

Time is eating away my memory. Time, and this illness, this trespasser in my brain.