Are my words ever actually audible, or do they just echo in my head while people stare at me, waiting?

I notice faint scars on her wrists and forearms, thin lines too symmetrical to be accidents.

I can’t seem to make myself care about anything to the right or left of the present.

I like how you remember things,’ I say. She looks at me. ‘Well, we have to. We have to remember everything. If we don’t, by the time we grow up it’ll be gone for ever.

But we don’t remember those lives. We can’t read our diaries.’ ‘It doesn’t matter. We are where we are, however we got here. What matters is where we go next.’ ‘But can we choose that?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘We’re Dead. Can we really choose anything?’ ‘Maybe. If we want to bad enough.

We eat and sleep and shuffle through the fog, walking a marathon with no finish line, no medals, no cheering.