As the unending tide of neuron connections increase, it becomes harder and harder to focus and recall any one particular moment, in particular the small details that make up so much of a person. The thatched, textured wallpaper that covers so many Japanese apartments, replaced by unseen workers with every tenant change, and how I drew my fingers over it lying in any number of low, mattress-centered beds on a myriad of listless Sundays. The shadows that called out to a floating younger self, not caring to understand the voices that would later form the suite of my invisible critics, the forces that would get me hooked on the drugs of easily accessible information and small, internal rewards for completing mundane tasks. The myself which at the time seemed natural and now so primitive, but in retrospect is inevitably envied, the root of some fundamental wound which stiffens the mental joints only more with age. I wonder now if remembering those soundless formative experiences is a hindrance or a boon. If anything the uncertainty of which direction leads to peace is the only constant between that man and another ten years on.