I am a memory machine. I string moments together like beads and decide how I feel about the necklace according to how easy or hard the last bead was to thread. My fingers could be bloody from the work, but if that last black pearl slipped as quick as lightning and felt good as it came to its final place, I’m likely to overlook all the sweat and tears and craziness and think, what a great piece of jewelry.
My whole life is held together like that. My whole being.
And that is crazy.
