Memories, like ice, know the art of disappearing: that lag between unique structure and melting into crowds, that critical juncture between internal and external worlds. Today, it pesters again, beckoning to revisit, return, research, relearn: a soliloquy of what could be but what never was. An exact science of bias and dreams. My heart screams as it breaks from what the memories take as they shift to manipulations of thought invocations, admired kinds of rote dictation. Leaving all that remains as all that’s to come. While what was done is never quite done.

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Memories, like ice, know the art of disappearing:
that lag between...

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