Memory is not just a jumble of uncertain records, but fragments of some broken whole always in reach and always true to a moment or two still perfectly alive, still happening, but moved behind the mirror. Pieces of a puzzle that you have been trying for a long time to put together out of what seems to be confirmed, that your truth belongs in the realm of necessity and heteronomous judgments, while you stumble around in this labyrinthine and half-believed world whose nature is revealed only by what can't be believed. Memory and expectation, past and future are structures by which the chief parts of yourself are sequestered, retained and still integrated but separate and unreachable. Such a strange division in the heart of presence, as you've chosen to look only through this narrow tube, which is a glass tube, which isn't even glass but made of air, of vacuum, of effective nothing. And is there even a division, the very idea of a division? It's either all or nothing, or both at once.