With limited detail, the star-mass becomes a constellation
A memory, I can feel my brain re-igniting dormant pilot lights
A struggling gas stove, an ignition that requires a match
Watching my fingers carefully: I often burn them in the conflagration
I didn't ask to have this brain, but I participated in its formation
So is memory a fault? My fault? It seems to be partially so.
Vagaries of storage, incomplete computer metaphors;
I don't know how silicon works, and I can't feel the upstairs remembering.
The forgetting process is more visceral, it feels like something because there is nothing;
Yet, yellow as a memorial, red as a flagging signal, gray as the fading (after sunset).
The sentence matches the time, an allotment of averages.
I see the form, in romance languages. Spanish? Latin?
Neon signs, when they are not lit, it's not a district, it's a cancellation policy.
Roman Ryan 