Crouched on the floor, I crumple up a piece of paper and toss it into the plastic sack. The cluttered room watches me, expectant. Perfume lingers in the air; I throw my head back as it seeps up my nose. My eyelids drop shut for a few seconds. I fall back onto the floor, legs crossed, as memories dance around my head.
What is a memory and why do we insist on hoarding objects that reek of the past?