I’d like to say that there wasn’t a beginning. Not officially. In fact, there weren’t any actual people there yet. So whatever Memory herself might become, wasn’t. I was there, but I wasn’t myself, either. There’s just no way to say this. One has to say, in some way, the opposite or… fail to declare the positive in a way that becomes more beautiful each time any attempt arises. But surrounding this, was an awareness. Delicate, ancient, intelligent beyond all words and conceptions. And it was fast. We flew together. For each other. And I remember this. We were heroic, but not in the way that mere words point at. I can’t really help the way I am talking, because it isn’t me talking and this isn’t talk. It’s Memory. And what that really is … is nothing like mere recording. The ordinary humans speak in words, and make casual references with them. But without memory, there are no words. Ever. It is her web that becomes the future. No songs, no knowledge, no language without M. The moon is Memory. Love is Memory. And so, too, disaster.