memory, it is said, is like an autumn leave, that murmurs to the wind, and then is heard no more.

how i wish it were so.

with me, rather, it would infinitely prefer to present itself as wisps of second-hand smoke, clouding my days and girdling my dreams; peace thus is with me no more.

it's like sitting in the twilight that does not rise or set, time flitting by my side and searing its flame into my face. i could not, and will not, drag myself up from the dead and  dusty; nor could i tell whether i am staggering along on the verge of great happiness or of grotesque despair.