None of it meant anything. He could remember all the things that mattered: the feelings, the sensations, the secret moments of truth. But he couldn’t recall the names or the stories. He couldn’t make any of it link together. The shadows of the trees were starting to blend, and he couldn’t see the buildings any more. He was no longer real. He belonged with the lost.

joel lane, from ‘the quiet hours.’ (via heksenhaus)