I remember my tongue thumbing the grain of sand you had passed from your mouth to mine. The sting of the wind subdued for a moment, leaving the tender story of our footprints.
The problem with a Memory Palace is that we don’t all find solitude in interior voids. Find a place of vivid memory, a place that takes no energy to muster. The sky from the backyard of your childhood home.
For me, my mind map is a sprawling infinite beach on the South Coast of England, pocked and scared with notes, names and memories drawn into the sand. A pristine beach that battles the erasing winds of age. Dotted across the beach are thundering bonfires, crackling driftwood arranged in numerical forms. Each string of numbers, a catalogue reference, a catalyst to the memories scrawled into the sand around the salivating flames. Reciting the mantra of Citronella, Sun Cream, Wet Neoprene. An ultimate melee of smells, activating carnal memories that my mind has buried beneath the ridges of sandbanks, erecting sand castles that shadow their wheezing corpses, crumbling gravestones soon swallowed by the sea.
691169 allows access to my phone and other devices of sensual prosthesis, unlocked by the numerical depiction of my lanky legs poised in fear at an orgy whilst others writhe on the floor in positions of mutual fellatio.
Scale is non-existence in the caverns of the mind, write as small or large as you wish, the bed of the beach forever sprawls.
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