Experiences that are branded, scorched into the mind. We’re forbidden to remember them but terrified to forget.
We walk down the street, a collection of all the pieces we can recall . . . and that’s it. A pile of memories that we hope will be a memory in itself.
Other instances will be gathered. Where will they fall on the pyramid of exceptionalities? How majestic can we make them? Or, are they merely found?
A promised lunch that was never shared. A rose; in December.
I’m beginning to forget this idea I’ve had before. Another potential place to go . . .
erased off the map.
The Infinite 