undocumented raze the way he framed his story before even beginning to tell it was more alive than most people's tales are in their totality, in all they have to give and say. i should have brought something with me to preserve that preface. i knew it the second he started speaking. but there was nothing. no hidden microphone. no fountain_pen or flesh of fallen tree. my mind kicked all his words away, saying, "hear them once and hold them while you can, because where they're going you cannot follow." memory can be so cruel. it mocks us in the moment of its unmaking. 250826 what's it to you? who go blather from