It was so long ago, in my childhood, I can't tell you if it ever really happened. I was maybe nine when I saw them on television and everything changed. I call into question eyes that I no longer look through. Eyes of memory that don't look at me from the mirror. Maybe for the same reason. They say dreams are given for free.

They, as usual, are dead wrong. Dreams cost a terrible amount, as do memories. I think of the stains of my memory against the clock, as though they were old, moths made of linen. I toss them at the clock hands that go round and round, trying to bollocks them, trying to make them remember. For me. I don't know --

Summers were scary for me then. In my early childhood. They were not overtly scary, but the drawing within the summer lines was something my box of Crayola's were unable to do. Not in those smeary lazing, yellow blobs of Sun, not concerned with life bursting, coloring book leafy green days. Those days of wildly growing grass, and yard onions, and sap and tree leaves; how tree bark feels to a child hand.

The symbols, and the aromas, all over, almost to the point of gagging. Somber fall and winter, I could contain. Not summer, though. Perhaps, I felt too that I was not drawn between the lines. That I would fall out of myself. That I was a mistake. My soul my heart cry and would crack, like those faces in that animation film did, on TV that Sunday night. The thing of faces has been a lesson that comes into my dreams. more and more, like Nude Descending a Staircase, a woman made of anatomical boxes falling down the stairs. Blocks of code, of cold drawers of human flesh that is no such thing.