I could tell you the whole story, but even that would be quite incomplete. Imagine your memories, now try to imagine memories that there aren’t any pictures of… how far back do they go? What happens to moments that aren’t important, those that dry up and stir around like dust falling through thick rays of sunlight? The last thought ever will have no record except for a few warm sparks in Jack’s hiccupping hippocampus. Nonsense? That day, the sky, the sun, the ground. Then it’s over. What happens to everything else? Does it disappear?