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.

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

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

Accept that there are things in this world we can never explain and life will be understandable. That is the irony of life. It is also the beauty of it.

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.