1. Memory blankets the past in a neon green meadow dappled with gray bits of matter. They ooze and coalesce into a brain brimming with unconscious narratives: glottal globs clogging the gaps of personal history. Tales of sound and fury signifying nothing but the living self.
2. The Transcendental Ego reigns over all, smoothing the way for a unity of experience, smoothing the way for a universe of sense. I stroll alone through the empty patches of meadow, waiting for Wordsworth's daffodils to bloom. Waiting for poetry to usurp the role of narrative, metaphor crowned as the foundation of knowledge.
3. The past besieges the present like Time''s Trojan Horse, teeming with shadows. At their edges, light lines the darkness. To try to remember now, the tabula is a noirish rasa, staring back through dull, heavy-lidded eyes. We see as we are seen. Memory dances before a mirror, an image so close to our touch, yet so far out of reach. Starved for imagery, we strain toward the black. Only connect. Only connect.