Memory is a strange voice in the back of my mind. Sometimes the voice is deafening with painful screams that stab my soul, other times I am barely able to recognize it, weak and feeble as a breath of wind, echoing what passes almost unnoticed from one generation to another.

Older memories are like Saturn's rings, surrounding a continuous layer, thickening with each memory of every life, flowing forever in history.

It is a huge mirror where every morning I look in to see all that I fear staring me in the face. I start a new day, obsessed and desperate to find out how time went around me.