My memory has become almost entirely fixed in forward motion. Which I think when the memory works forward it is called imagination.
“Justice is a painted gendarme whose colors rub off in our hands. A gendarme that’s been painted, carved, encrusted in the foods we ingest. The trademark of our moribund society, of a nation unhinged, of men who don’t know how to hold on to the elegance they possessed as children, when man — that obese monster — happily slept.“
Viscount Emilio Lascano Tegui | On Elegance While Sleeping