I can swear that child laughs just like her mother. Sometimes you'll be driving down the highway and you'll find yourself crying to the radio. Sometimes you'll come across a scrap of paper in the junk drawer with somebody else's handwriting and feel a chill in your spine. Sometimes you'll wonder where you acquired a certain coffee mug and be forced to remember something that happened years ago. Life is a fabric.
Life is a thread.
Life is constantly written and rewritten on the rags of our waking, conscious moments. If life is all these things, then there is a palimpsest. There is a layer behind the present that was put there the day, the week, the year before. There is a union of the physical and the emotional. There is constant climax becoming endless exposition.