incredibly, beckett

and it came back also to my mind, as sleep stole over it again, that my nights were moonless and the moon foreign, to my nights, so that i had never seen, drifting past the window, carrying me back to other nights, other moons, this moon i had just seen, i had forgotten who i was (excusably) and spoken of myself as i would have of another, if i had been compelled to speak of another. yes it sometimes happens and will sometimes happen again that i forget who i am and strut before my eyes, like a stranger. then i see the sky different from what it is and the earth too takes on false colours. it looks like rest, it is not, i vanish happy in that alien light, which must have once been mine, i am willing to believe it, then the anguish of return, i won't say where, i can't, to absence perhaps, you must return, that's all i know, it's misery to stay, misery to go.

molloy

fish
i had suffered for a long time from the illusion
that remembering inhibited one's experience.
now the illusion is almost my only memory--
and that i am cold and that i have been cold for
a long time and that this coldness was brought
on gradually by an illusion. yet, it is likely that i
will not be cold later. then, i will remember
something else and not this. i will have
forgotten the story to which i currently refer.
each person has her own theater. i propose this
as an exhibit or a symptom of my personal stage.

carla harryman, memory play