Staring at the piles of fallen, forlorn, ash-stricken leaves, beyond the pale walls of my room, it becomes difficult not to turn to the rigmarole of melancholic thoughts of our past living(s). These thoughts cautiously slither and slide their way, time-travelling into my present reflections: To think that without this memory I have nothing, but because of this memory I am nothing.
But, what if by a slight, thin chance this memory was fabricated—my imagination unscrupulously playing cruel tricks to pass the time?
Yet, whether this memory belongs to something real beyond my imaginary landscape, it becomes real nonetheless. It has penetrated its way into my very being: spreading over my mind and body; stretching over mornings and nights; crawling into my veins; stamping my soul with a lucid, pristine, immortal memory.
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