Chapter Nine
No.127
Right
© Copyright Reserved - United Kingdom
Ideal Screen Composition 1024 x 768
Ideal Screen Composition 1024 x 768
It begins with a flicker...
Not light, but scent,
A trace of something once held And long since vanished.
The machine hums softly,
Not with gears,
But with echoes.
A name, a gesture,
A half-spoken promise
Replays in the chamber
Where time folds inward.
Pages do not turn here.
Instead, they shimmer... Palimpsests of grief and joy Layered like sediment
In the vault of the mind.
Each memory,
A filament of light
Threaded through the dark, Illuminating not truth,
But resonance.
The engine does not discriminate. It resurrects the mundane Alongside the mythic:
A broken cup,
A first kiss,
A funeral hymn.
And when it stalls...
When the image blurs
Or the sound distorts...
It is not failure,
But invitation.
To reimagine.
To rewrite.
To ritualize.
The mnemonic engine
Never truly stops.
It waits in silence,
Charged with longing,
Ready to conjure
The next flicker
From the archive of the soul.
Not light, but scent,
A trace of something once held And long since vanished.
The machine hums softly,
Not with gears,
But with echoes.
A name, a gesture,
A half-spoken promise
Replays in the chamber
Where time folds inward.
Pages do not turn here.
Instead, they shimmer... Palimpsests of grief and joy Layered like sediment
In the vault of the mind.
Each memory,
A filament of light
Threaded through the dark, Illuminating not truth,
But resonance.
The engine does not discriminate. It resurrects the mundane Alongside the mythic:
A broken cup,
A first kiss,
A funeral hymn.
And when it stalls...
When the image blurs
Or the sound distorts...
It is not failure,
But invitation.
To reimagine.
To rewrite.
To ritualize.
The mnemonic engine
Never truly stops.
It waits in silence,
Charged with longing,
Ready to conjure
The next flicker
From the archive of the soul.
Author: Nigel Wilcox 16.08.25