I don't really have a photographic memory. But some things stick in my head like it happened yesterday. It happened today. It's not entirely clear. It smelled like a heater that's been on too long and french fries. I think goldenrod really suits you. I don't remember the size of the hand that waved at me. I should know it though. I tried to capture it in pen and ink, but your legs are missing. They might be on another page. So I looked for them. And I found instead the drugs I tried to sell to the bank to repay my debt. Fancy that the Teller said, she had already been prescribed those! Otherwise she'd have gladly wiped out the debt. So I set some gloves and a bracelet on fire. It wasn't warm. But it did smell like french fries.
I dreamt that my forehead began to decay, it turned black like ashes. Then luminescent centipedes crawled out of the decay. They squirmed and tickled down my face. And they were not pretty. Neither was I, half decayed. And nobody came to scoop up my parts that kept crumbling. I woke up calling for my mom.
I think with memory at least, I get addicted to certain ones that never happened. Well, not like in the sick delusional sense, just the perhaps ones. Is it you? Was it you all along? Will it ever be you? You're so pretty!
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