When I was twelve years old, I read a book about space; it was an old book, referring to Pluto as a planet, speculating about what wonders might lurk under Venus' clouds, all sorts of things hopelessly outdated, but it charmed me, for some reason. Perhaps it was the title (which I can no longer recall) or the fact that it had the tattered look of something well-loved, and read in reckless situations, but I go back and think of that book, sometimes.
It's funny what stays with you- you can remember what you felt like when you read a book, but not it's title, or you can remember the color of someone's eyes, but forget their name. It's strange, what I remember from back then- I can remember the tune to a song whose name and lyrics I have long forgotten, but not what I was doing when the bomb fell- which, I suppose, implies greater intellectual integrity than most have, as I remember reading, back when I was a child, before all that nonsense with the war and the alvarans, that people would, when thinking back on a dramatic moment- the example, I believe, a terrorist attack- that their memories would change bit by bit each time they recalled it, until it was completely different than at firs
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