people say life is short.

life's not short—it's long.

the memory of a human being: that's what's short.

You let me set the water in the shower, and followed me into the booth to stand there with me under the warm spray. You kept your head down, not looking me in the eyes—though if you were shy, I couldn’t tell. You had no reason to be. You know what you look like.

I know you don’t remember what we did.

I want to tell you.

So. Monday. We meet again.

We will never be friends—but maybe we can move past our mutual enmity toward a more-positive partnership.

(memory is) A strange echo, which stores its replicas according to some other acoustic than consciousness or expectation.

Memory weaves and traps us at the same time according to a scheme in which we do not participate: we should never speak of our memory, for it is anything but ours; it works on its own terms, it assists us while deceiving us or perhaps deceives up to assist us.

Memory is a mirror that scandalously lies.