Memory is a means by which humans are able to remember and recall events, situations, requirements, or tasks. However, memory does not always transcribe the billowy poet bog that the ancient lords bestowed upon the subjects of the Corinthian lands beyond the wretched sea. Is there a haven; a fallen godman wishes solace. Such strange things and graceful muses in this place. How they dance and glide about the place. Silken gloves and stretched leather of fine Parisian shoes. A hard month’s salary is such a tiny thing. Things… all of them things. Her hair, a stream of sea across a woeful face; me. It is late by the witching hour and early by the Maynard’s carriage strum. Little children made of cheese do squander their talents in wasted endeavors. Jeweled farmers? Pompous fools, there is not a means of obtaining such things. Things… I remember things, strewn about. They were left there by the jealous man inside. She did not pick them up, not Evaline. She just sat upon a throne of tears. How quaint… perhaps droll. The dross of deathly diamonds does dock at Demon Diocese. I believe the dowager decked the drop of delicate dales at Drunken Dromer’s old destiny doomed to dwell in delicious domes. They glided to the mine of mine and his old horse said, “No.” “No?” I asked of it, and “no” it said again.

Wait, this place. Have you seen it before? I believe I have. Meadows have witnessed villages spring from the roots of dormant people, never knowing, never remembering. I finally found a garden in which the gels say, “howdy punk,” only I don’t understand the context of memorial randomosity. It’s in the ocean. Jump in and swim and I promise the mermen will help you along. If the mermaids (maids of the mar, el mer mio tan amable y agradable; yo quiero nadar) find you, well, hell, you best run. I seen the bravest soldiers tell me they ain’t stickin’ to no broad abroad, but they’s just plain unthinkin’. They ain’t rememberin’ what it’s like, up there ‘round them trees. It’s like, a memory. A forgotten rememberance of a past, of a reason to. What, then, are we doing? Ah, yes, we are remembering. Remembering things, which aptly applied, apply to the subject of memories. A memory… what is it? I forgot!