It starts with a needling sensation. Pink ****** poking around the back of your mind. Consciousness receding in retreat as something else overtakes your brain. Placing time at its’ own weird intervals. Fuzzy projections like tiny porcupine quills sting and stain your flesh as you try to recall. It is one sensory input after another linked by some unknown band with its’ own elasticity. Memory is not immutable, but a soft and fleshy permeable thing, changing with the rearranging of your current identity.

       Identity is a sea of broken lines, experiences forming disintegrating and reforming again. Changing ever so slightly or ever so drastically. There is sadness in the losing of solid beliefs, in coming to terms with the transient nature of your memory. Even when soft connections are made, when emotions seam to tie you to old memories there is still sorrow. There is still an aching, longing for something better, or a baleful pain gnawing at your gut like an angry cougar. Memories attempting to devour you in its’ strangely reconstructed past.