Death and dying and grieving the memories of what we are. I see a pattern in your longer stories. And I wonder if we are more than memories playing themselves in a body, and I wonder if there is this time when this memories escape us, who we have become. Maybe, our true self watches us remember and he rejoices or feels through us, our existence, our memories, so maleable and fragile. So difficult to keep score of what transpired in real life.
Thank you for writing.
Pablo