It was a long time ago, as it is always a long time ago. It was far away, but then isn’t it always far away? It was a time when Angels spoke to us. It was a place that is still curled within our memories like a snail within its shell. I was a child. I was nothing but a snatched thought. I remember it well. I remember nothing. There’s the scent of a flower we loved to place upon the breast of our dead, but the scent triggers no memories of where it grew. I know it was remote, and there was danger. I do not remember the danger. I know my mother had died, and it was my role to gather the blossoms for her burial. I do not remember my mother. My father had given me a basket for the purpose. I do not remember my father. My hands were too small to break the branches, the flesh still as pliant and damp as wax. I was freshly moulded. The Angel guided me. I remember the quality of the light: tinged green by a large body of water. It might have been the sea. It might not have been the sea. I do not remember its scent. I remember the Angel. I remember we all had an Angel, just behind all of our right eyes. I do not remember its voice, but I know it was you. Now I know you again, but now I have forgotten the place. I have forgotten the time. It was so long ago. It was so far away.