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I remember, like moving backwards. The string pulling on my spine. To birth, to the beginning. Backwards, I live it all again but distorted and different. Noisy rooms are rendered silent. Things you once said I cannot recall. I can delve down back into memory as I am yanked back by the thing tied at the base of my skull. Somehow it is never just as it was and no one's face is quite in focus. My perception and the objective past exist simultaneously. Separate but irreconcilable. Functionally, neither is more or less true.
Yet still I move forward in time.
