As when it’s in your eyes,
And never again will the moon be so gentle
As when it’s on your thighs.
So take your golden lips
And place them onto mine;
Your touch is soft as gentle dove’s,
Your kiss, as sweet as wine.
—Kenneth Wolf
And then, all of a sudden, you remember. It doesn’t matter what you were doing before, or what you will do now that it’s there. You have remembered, and there is nothing in this world which will show you what strange path did the sparks take to awake the words —the meaningless words! —from endless hibernation. Like Horpach’s crew in The Invincible, you feel the black void in your stomach when you become able to hear a dead man’s last thoughts, only that this time the corpse belongs to none other than your own self, the You of yesterday nine years ago.
The arising question then is, has this detached piece of life returned to stay? Is it half a finger, miraculously back in place? Or is the finding of a random memory more like that of an old fingernail under the sink, something undeniably yours yet condemned to immediate oblivion?