I read in a book once, where this woman felt the sudden urge to take her friend into her room, both of them gay, and take off their clothes and just be another pair of lovers in NYC. She wanted to sift through her memories with him, memories that were never stories or anecdotes; just let it all tumble out and look at them.
so. is my life these watery moments that have no connection to anything else? or are they someone else's memories?