I have memories so vague I'm afraid they'll disintegrate if I write them down. I read when I was little about the man who first unsealed the tombs of Egypt. There was a necklace hanging from a chair, and somebody touched it and the string turned to dust on the instant, beads flying every which way. It took hours to gather them up. The necklace had hung there for hundreds of years, intact, because no one had moved it.
In the same way I have memories grown so faint within the finger-span of my two decades' timeline that I'm sure, when I fixate my brain on one, I'm not remembering the thing itself but rather my own memory of remembering it, recalled at a later period. Memories fade as they are stored and desperately replicate themselves when stirred, each one a worser copy of the last, less image, more static.
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