A Fugue in B manor

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.

I wake up in a strange room, unsure of how I got there. I don't remember going to sleep. I feel sluggish. The walls are beige and the floor is immaculately clean white tile. I've never seen such clean tiles. I'd heard about floors so clean you could eat off them but never believed it until today. Directly in front of me is a kind of screen or monitor atop a blue cart so that it sits about eye level while I'm sitting in this chair.

My head feels swollen.

When the screen turns on it shows me pictures of my life. Sometimes they are short videos without sound. The more I watch the more I feel like these bright memories are ones that I can never seem to remember on my own. These are so vivid and real that my feelings in that moment come rushing back to me: the thrill of pedaling a bike on my own, the stabbing chest pain of my first rejection. When I try think about them without the screen the details are so blurred that they could belong to anybody. It's not possible to remember someone else's memories, right?


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