Here's the lost boy with the brittle smile, plastered panstick on his face, making himself up; for a little while all the fragments will remain in place. We are only what we manage to retrieve out of memory (Who do you think you are?) Inside, it's a hailstorm visibility transformed by outer confidence and charm step up to take responsibility, step down to keep the pieces of identity calm and the moment we believe that we got it all in place is the very moment when the cup overflows out of memory. (Who do you think you are? Where did you say you'd been? What did you think you were? How did it seem? How does it seem?) There goes the who, the what, the why and wherefore all folded up in origami stuff: people and places we once cared for... we remember, but not vividly enough and it's all blank paper when we finally open up with not even watermarks as messages to trace only folds in the floe of the frozen face out of memory.