The caloused hands raid the memory. it is secluded in its own prison their mind. they grapple with it, feeling out its consistency but like sand it falls through fingers with ease and grainy slickness. the voice of the thought is muffled but screaming, like an itch you cannot scratch and a song you cant remember. it takes a master to access the things we bury. sometimes it takes two. this time it takes a mirror, the englightenment of ones backwards reflection.