Memory is more than ideas and sensations. Yes, Buck is right. Ok. I give him that. But it is also an experience, my experience and my memory of it is a feature of me with a logic internal only to me. What am I but memory? That’s it. Memory of the past that was and the past that never was (but might have been was). A growing, solid, massive, increasing expanding thing, and just over there, look there, the paltry and shapeless future. Small. I hope (not much) I fear (too much). I had hoped more but that is part of the past now too, lurching away. I remember my mother and here she is now, enormous. She fills my now. She’s right here, do you feel her filling the room? Of course you don’t. I do. Her things, her smells, her tap water before mass, her baked apple filled with brown sugar. You can’t smell it but I can.