Much of what we see will be lost.
I look at Watson sometimes, before we go to bed, and wonder how time flows in his dog mind. Does night descend on an entire year’s worth of memories for him? Does the sun rise after a months-long drift into darkness, the new dawn filled from infinity? It’s just 24-hours to us. On most days, that’s almost disposable.
...
When I stop I shake, so I only do so in bursts, pausing just long enough to sense the tremors, like crude ripples on my skin. I hear subterranean worms in their tunnels, a low crashing of waves under my feet. And I hear the torrent too, buried, raging, and I know we’re meant to swim,
until subsumed.
...
Jacob now talks of leaving for university. He wants to study in Sherbrooke, get an apartment with a couple of buddies. That’s less than two years away now—which means it’s happened already. The present? It barely registers anymore. Billy Pilgrim would be proud.
Much of what we see will be lost.
Much of what we know
is forgotten.
