…………I remember almost nothing now of who he was, or how I was, around him. I can make that matter, or I don’t have to, it doesn’t …………have to matter, any more than the small moth I watched struggling in what appeared to be – torn and otherwise empty – an abandoned web: there was time, yet, I might’ve freed it, but even in abandonment, in what had …………been abandoned – the web, maybe, but now the moth for sure – I saw the ghost of purpose still having a purpose – hard not to respect that. It’s as if the mind somewhere …………means to shut down memory, that way preventing us from understanding too clearly our own unhappiness, and in place of memory, offers up …………belief. We believe we’re happy.