удивительная штука - память человечья. Вот вроде б...

an amazing thing is the memory of man. It’s like you’ve forgotten everything, like it’s used and everything has been erased like a good new-eraser from your warm sleepy soul ... it’s like this soul, as if it had come out of the soul, clean, new, clear, in your pajamas ... but some kind of slut, some kind of thread, a wand, damn, they know what kind of thing you meet on the way ... and Op-la! Some thick mug, bubble mug (and how much could get into it?) Or, say, a sort of edge of a wooden table ... on powerful elephant legs ... in a dark-dark room, shaking when we .... uh! Yes, however, where does it all come from? Where does the memory store so many fragments of garbage, trash, forgotten useless photographs, memories that have a place on the graveyard? Where does all this rubbish come from? Someone urgently take all this stuff out of the gate! I want to wake up in the morning and have none of this in my pockets ... The strange property of human memory, nevertheless, is to remember these subtle colors of a long blurred past, where I, where we are ... I don’t want to remember. God forbid.