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“My memory has grown increasingly dim, and I have already forgotten any number of things. Writing from memory like this, I often feel a pang of dread. What if I've forgotten the most important thing? What if somewhere inside me I'd a dark limbo where all the truly important memories are heaped and slowly turning into mud?” — Haruki Murakami
My memory has grown increasingly dim, and I have already forgotten any number of things. Writing from memory like this, I often feel a pang of dread. What if I've forgotten the most important thing? What if somewhere inside me I'd a dark limbo where all the truly important memories are heaped and slowly turning into mud?