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Memory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that
Memory runs her needle in and out, up and down, hither and thither
We know not what comes next, or what follows after
Thus, the most ordinary movement in the world
Such as sitting down at a table and pulling the inkstand towards one
May agitate a thousand odd, disconnected fragments
Now bright, now dim
Hanging and bobbing and dipping and flaunting