Unpredictable flashbacks, so brief they vanish as they arrive. Hard to grasp, impossible to trace. Prompted by the weather, the light, a sound, a thought about something else entirely, or—finally, and worst—without any stimulus at all: leakage from someone else’s project, as if someone unrelated down there is editing footage of your life for purposes of their own. Fields, hills, foreign cities. Sometimes a voice. Always objects in light. A figure or two, not many, glimpsed from across a room or a street. You can’t call these memories. They don’t last long enough. No event seems to be involved, or even implied. They don’t seem to have happened to you, only to have been recorded. Meanwhile in the garden the rose, thuggish and unpruned, is pulling the rose arch apart.