I have erased myself. My past is past. The people I knew are dim memories. Few faces, names, or events exist in my mind. Now it is night. Summer. I do not remember the nights of my youth. I look at young people on the streets and wonder if I was ever like that. I wonder what they are thinking and if I have ever thought their thoughts. As I'm walking down this street, now that they have left, the silence has allowed my other senses to explore. Moths make furious attacks at the streetlights. The choir of insects in symphonic and seems to hang suspended in the air's misture. The smell of plants and trees makes the darkness full of rich and strong life. So strong that you can turn back on it and take it for granted. You don't have to remember it because it is a constant. Somehow truer than fact. One of the few memories I have is of having a memory that held every moment of my life like a vise grip. It was a memory that held every thought, every feeling, perspective, and perception captive. I vaguely remember that I was always angry, sad, or in some kind of need. I do not remember the moment or the events that led to my systematic erasure of my memory and associations with people. Now the seasons pass through me like a breeze through thin curtains. I remember no names when I am introduced. I don't even know my own name or if I had one. I'm sure I did, but like every other fact on this planet, it just does not matter.