I am wracked with the sorrow of memory.
It heaves forth, it whirls sickly-sweet in my stomach.
But it is good.
This is good.
The memories want to leave.
Like ghosts, they must want to depart; we cannot compel them.
I am afraid, though: petrified.
If they spill out of me and dissolve upon contact with the air, then will I be empty?
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