Tuesday, August 14, 2001
I meant to burn him into memory like I had so many times before with other, less-vivid events so that when I left, he would still be here in my hands. The smell of his hair, his skin under my palm, his breath on my neck, the rasp of his voice, the sun through his morning beard, the crease of his eyes when he smiled. Experience melted down to a list of images, smells, and sounds. Simplification does memory no justice and even if it did, ultimately, memory will always fail. It always fades. Everything fades.
Et Cetera
// Rolling list of recently browsed.
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