Drive to the Kmart and wander the aisles. The store seems different since you were last here. Which was when. Orient yourself. Try. You must develop patterns. Pick up a set of green dish towels. It's possible you could use these. Who thinks to notice? The litmus test for memory is what. Red you remember, blue unhand the steering wheel. You must drive to a new place, a different town. No memories there. You must learn the vernacular. Develop patterns. The relationship between pattern and habit is what. The residents mostly wear hoodies. That's the vernacular. Speak to one. A young man in a green hoodie. Ask something historical. Something personal. Go ahead, walk on up. You find yourself slanged into silence. Your mouth filled with static. The relationship between silence and death is what.

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"Lake of Forgetfulness" is one in a series I'm working on that breaks the moon into its parts, holds each up to the light, and asks if it [the moon] can be made shiny and new again. On a scale of 1 to 5, 5 being the least depressing and 1 being on par with Aldi and funeral homes, Kmart scores a soul-suckage rating of about 2.5.