“Remember me, if only I could remember myself” – Peter Arnold, San Francisco, 2011

And a silent noise whirs some more until the entire containment of building begins to creak, shudders till ill-at-ease and vehemently vibrating – and here a sleeping geriatric sits, tied to the slumbering insides of his agonised mind, only none of the whole wide world matters all of that much anymore but for… simply everything which gathers to stand… silently still. Silently, still. The fondness for good, good music that plays itself in slightly, lightly, lovingly overhead – sweetly, succinctly, tellingly so he gets to know it so soon as he awakens from this relatively escapist eye-shut. Eagerly yet… forever disenfranchised, about to become completely uncertain in this sudden moment. A whirling footnote of the same blasted song which carries with it its own stressed breath carries itself strenuously amidst a frozen-faced blink. And the case of onslaught Alzheimers has finally caught on and, rest rather uncomfortably assured, for it will affect the lessening scope of his once upon a significantly intelligent being, abruptly placing his entire family back at arm’s length. And back to a million more frozen-faced instances mysteriously wherein… they never get to belong again…  enveloped memorably inside of the sweetness of his living dreams. Left to be but a mere eggshell of his former self. Memorably uncertain as to the problematic placement of both a where and a when.