Crumble.

To stand on a road and look back, to see the path you walked crumbling behind you, to know there is no chance of return — and, even if you could, you no longer remember where it once led.

Memory is such a fleeting thing for those of us unable to keep it close.

Time? Time is even more slippery: quicksilver, blinding, gone.

When did this event occur? Was it yesterday or three months ago? Did it occur at all? Fading, fading, shredded to frayed scraps, relegated to the jumbled heap of torn threads.

Every moment is immaterial, for the bridge between mind and memory has long since fallen to ash and blown away. Nothing stays, lost instead to eternal fog.

Such is the state of the deteriorated mind, ever shunned in a world that equates memory with intelligence.

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