There’s this side of me which is no longer mine. I know where the doors are, but they feel just like walls. The windows reflect way too much light, and the halls in my mind get confused with misshaped plans floating senselessly. Sentences never get finished, and words never get born. Stories get started with no legs to stand on. And you begin to wonder: when did this home become a memory? How long has it been since I simply decided to erase it from concreteness? You can’t remember. I can tell you this: do not walk back into a memory. It feels physically contradictory. An unfinished start.