My, what a complex subject it is, given all the angles and the extent of research on the matter. When I reached the end of it, one thing (and one thing only) was clear:
Trust your memory at your peril.
And that’s rather scary when you consider how much we rely on it for our judgement and prosecution of life in general.
Life in general is giving me little to write posts about at the moment. Mostly it’s a continuous catalogue of discomfort, malfunctions, reasons to be seriously anxious, and despair at the dilapidated state of the human condition. I’m becoming bored with writing about it all.
It will, no doubt, be self-evident that signs of spring continue to manifest mother nature's munificence in the Shire. And the fact that I made friends with a splendid skewbald horse today would be of no interest whatsoever to anybody but me, even though it’s a pleasant memory to carry me through to bed time. At least, I think it’s a memory. No, I’m sure it is because I also remember being disappointed that his companion, the grey, ignored me utterly. (As far as I recall, or think I do.)
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