of a used-car dealer. t I can remember.

    c tells Madame Sco give o one of t of teen and Fool likes  out of takes  doo t see her again.

    But  as good as dead t s foot inside t  of capture e.

    As for myself, I am sure I ured by tly confident t is o t  t assures me,  superior confidence, t I am mistaken, so t I am not sure wo believe.

    t is dedicated to teration of memory.

    Memory, says t, is ts; ts o live but man o remember. Out of ract patterns of significant forms. Memory is t beravel time -- it is t lose our ure t and  from co grimaces  es matics but o listen to screaming. quot;tropic roric of t;, . Madame Scimes at nigo augment  make any more noise.

    Memory, origin of narrative; memory, barrier against oblivion; memory, repository of my being, te filaments of myself I ime into a spiders o catc as I can. In t of my self-spun , in ty of my self-possession. Or so I would, if I could.

    Because my memory is undergoing a sea-cain I remember, I am no longer sure  is I remember nor, indeed, t.

    Everyday, t attempts to erase tapes from my memory. ed a complex system of forgetting. Altely assert reet, I knoion is no more t, paltry line of defence against terations of t. ed in me a set of pseudo-memories, all of o a dreadful confusion so t, taining tuality of turn to me ified experience. All of them.

    Dear god, all of them.

    Remembering is t stage of absolute forgetfulness, says t Count, ed into a fugue of all t  in ts small