Memories are sounds trapped in the roundness of a stone. I catch myself in a memory.
The stubborn memories which come so sneakily as if they are events happening in present. I am a sake filled by them walking while I am constantly happening in past through present.
They are just sounds between happening and not happening. The sounds that insist inoccurring inside me: “I “as a place for occurrence.
However, I don’t remember when I’m drained and poured by the shaking scene. I know it is neither present nor past.
Maybe when I was drinking black tea staring at the neighbour’s pine tree, I had been possessed by a sound that doesn’t say anything.