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!