Something that no one can control. Not the time it happens, not the things that are forgotten. The undefined emptiness and loss, the strain in the brain, like a person just awoke from a clueless dream.
Yet, certain things haunts and stalks.
Everything. There is only so much that can be recalled, and there is only so much that can be dispelled.
Stories are histories. Histories form stories.
Not that it was regret that outlined the youth once lived, it was the unexplained move once made.
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