Memory is not linear but memory of memory tends to the linear. So we start with that peace-still pond. An after-life should be comforting but not if it means that the dead can see our frailty. Falling through a hedge is easy. The guilt of recreational onanism. This has always scared you. But not stopped you.
Memory floats like the body in Sunset Boulevard. Internalized but potent and damning and not unspeaking. Now Dylan washes over him, redolent of a confined world where eyes are never open but unclosed. Not music. Not that Dylan. Go not gentle. His grandfather was Welsh. You weep for not knowing him better. I weep.
Are you asleep? You can never go back but waking dreams invent a new past in which you are given infinite chances but still spurn them. At dream's end he is still me. I, you. Plagued by chronic failures that signify true measure. Measure this man by his failures, his accomplishments come too easy. As does falling through a hedge. Ironic that. Chuckles. Je ne peut pas parler Francais. Quel dommage.
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