One should disallocate one’s own failures. One should commit to one’s own dwindling. Neither songs nor headstones are graceful without the rhythm of forgetting. As in a dream consumed by haste, where a flock of leaks gathers kindling. A spider sleeping inside a clock, insensible what she is begetting. If not grace, then, at least continuity. If not continuity, then, at least form. History untethers from the physical, noise slips in through a crack in the mind. A synapse billows and blinks, its fire snuffed by the snowstorm. Enmeshed in a web of milliseconds, the signifier is invisible and blind. This pointer marks a thing to be remembered, a shoebox-coffin for one’s regrets. Allocate and pass by reference, they said. But of course one forgets.