The world outside was dark, the ship pitched and rolled and yawed on the deep Atlantic swell, the turbines throbbed, and spray from the bow washed the poop deck just outside the hatch. The air smelled of salt and furnace oil.
As I listened to the song tonight, the memory seemed painfully false. Was I really there all those years ago? Is life really just an illusion, and is memory its principal agent? Was that an ordinary experience or an extraordinary one? How do you know?
Existential crap, right? Right. But the memories persist, as do the questions.