Now its years since your body went flat and even memories of that are all think and dull, all gravel and glass. But who needs them now -- displaced they're easily more safe -- the worst of it now: I can't remember your face. Return. For a while, with the vertigo cured, we were alive -- we were pure. The void took the shape of all that you were, but years take their toll, and things get bent into shape... Antiseptic and tired, I can't remember your face. Return. You were supposed to grow old. Reckless, unfrightened, and old, you were supposed to grow old. Return. You were supposed to return.