Work Text:
memories are our connection to the past, our ties to things long gone, or perhaps only a moment ago, a passing glance, a laugh on the wind, maybe a time well spent, or a sadness unquenched, memories are our truths, our lies, our lives, ourselves, to forget them is normal, a common trait we all share, our connection with etch other built on an unreliable bridge, we are our memories, our moments and our lies, they make us who we really are, and hide us from ourselves. memories are the past, only with them do we know that. but without them, when are we to argue how the time or day to be, what keeps us in our now, with out our pasts to see, how can we whats here, if we cannot keep our then, a memory is a tricky thing, it's back a sickly yellow, but hold us in our present, its arms a bow so tightly pulled, unravel its waving curl, the contents of an empty box is spilt, and once more were asked, how is our now that is your then, a question asked again, and again.