In Heathrow a vast chunk of memory detached itself from a blank bowl of airport sky and fell on him. He vomited into a blue plastic canister without breaking stride.

Time moves in one direction, memory another. We are that strange species that constructs artifacts intended to counter the natural flow of forgetting.

Time moves in one direction, memory in another.

I will keep no further journal of that same hesternal torch‐light ; and, to prevent me from returning, like a dog, to the vomit of memory, I tear out the remaining leaves of this volume...

She smiled at him. It was her special smile. Her please go away you piece of sub-proletarian turd smile.

We have wasted History like a bunch of drunks shooting dice back in the men's crapper of the local bar.