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Time was supposed to erase memories, or at least to dull them. With the unimportant matters, the passage of hours dutifully corroded the sharpest of details, slowly yet consistently until the picture itself was all but gone and all that remained was the dull ache of a feeling. A feeling that, whenever something was said or viewed that might have triggered that picture in the mind, said "you know this. You have seen it before. It was here once, but is no longer, and you will never find it no matter how hard you look."
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I have faith in a few things - divinity and grace
But even when I'm on my knees I know the devil preys
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