I fight against my depression. I am not well, but

I am not mad. I’m after something. Memory, yes. A

reel. More than just time. I summon up remembrance of

things past: surely, more than just time. But what is

the past? Could it be, the firmness of the past

is just illusion? Is there any reason to trust a

man in his late fifties, who speaks of his “child’s

memory” as if it existed, unintruded upon by intervening experience,

like an old movie reel, waiting only for a projector?

Nobody can really say for sure, because nobody really knows.
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Paraphrases from Sonnet no. 30 by William Shakespeare, Einstein’s Dreams by Alan Lightman, The Memory Thief by Philip Gourevitch, Risks of Overclocking the Processor by Charles M. Kozierok, Cosima Wagner’s Diaries and Jarhead: A Marine’s Chronicle of the Gulf War and Other Battles by Anthony Swofford.

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