How could we insist
on the persistence of
a memory? When there’s
so many things that
easily slip through the
cracks, carved by the
sharp claws of forgetfulness?
Vanishing without warning,
like a thief in the night,
or a firefly that has escaped
your eyes. Why rely on
ephemeral instances when
there are things far
restless and immortal
than a mere piece of
memory? Diamonds. And
stones, and the sound of
your ticking heart.
Why, of all things
then, a memory?