Bad days my memory functions no better than an out-of-focus kaleidoscope, but other days me recall is painfully perfect.

I'm rambling again. Wandering off the point. But this is the true story of my wasted life...

Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.

In her final years she would still recall the trip that, with the perverse lucidity of nostalgia, became more and more recent in her memory.

...and then I began to drift, fighting tears. I used to come here with Miriam. Miriam, my heart's desire. What was troubling her this morning? Maybe Kate had reproached her on the phone for leaving me? How dare Kate.
Oh yeah? Go for it, my darling. Remind her of what she's missing. No, don't.

Memory takes a lot of poetic licence. It omits some details; others are exaggerated, according to the emotional value of the articles it touches, for memory is seated predominantly in the heart. The interior is therefore rather dim and poetic.