A door. Heavy, lichened, carved away by hands and time. If I touch it a small filminess come from it, a little bit of it, onto me. Is it absorbed by my skin? Does it eek through me slowly in my blood: will it carry its memories to my own?
Each time we remember, a memory becomes polluted by the moment we remember it in. So things we have remembered many times have changed and shifted in each remembering. Like a chinese whisper. Facts infused by fiction, memory floods like hot water onto the leaves of our understanding. Our age.