"The places that we have known belong now only to the little world of space on which we map them for our own convenience. None of them was ever more than a thin slice, held between the contiguous impressions that composed our life at that time; remembrance of a particular form is but regret for a particular moment; and houses, roads, avenues are as fugitive, alas, as the years." --- Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time
A thin slice, held between the contiguous impressions that composed [my] life on March 9, 1992; look how happy I was paying respects at my favorite writer's grave, and how sunny the day was, and what a nice green shirt I have on -- I loved that shirt!
