The palest ink will endure beyond the memories of man

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.

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

Memory is like patches of sunlight in an overcast valley, shifting with the movement of the clouds. Now and then the light will fall on a particular point in time, illuminating it for a moment before the wind seals up the gap, and the world is in shadows again.

To have memories, happy or sorrowful, is a blessing, for it shows we have lived our lives without reservation.

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

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