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And so it begins, the slow and weary process of eviction. Names, faces, sounds, facades, all stacked up like souvenirs waiting for their turn, hoping to survive another cycle. Time and again, this table has witnessed the unbecoming of a story, or a moment becoming untraceable—you leaning against the wall, exhaling portions of nostalgia as the window tries to fathom every possible shape of departure. Perhaps, our hippocampus is an attic and maybe we hoard history as if one day we’ll have enough to live the rest of our lives in retrospect. But what do you call a memory when it outlives its purpose?

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