it’s raining. i’m reading things i don’t remember writing: stories, poems, anecdotes.
i remember so little of the past.
the more i try to recall memories, the more they retreat into the unknown. each time i try to reconstruct one, i add something from the present to it. i now have different versions of each, and no way of telling what really happened.
even recollection is an act of defamiliarisation.
redesigned memories are falling around me, simultaneously pushing me away from and bringing me closer to other points in time.
water never precipitates alone.