Your memories act like overgrown vines, moving from room to room and making up muscles and form along the way. One day the house is covered, entire ecosystems sprouting from all over, most whispering nonsense vaguely disguised as truth. Of course you believe it. Were it not for these vines and all the roses and honey you’ve reaped, the day is simply too much to contain. Where is it, and when did it happen, how long has it been like this—the mutation that led to the fork: supernova wearing a clown suit, or most mediocre star on this planet. And which did you take, or did you refuse the choice, it’s hard to tell.  The vines close in from behind, leaving gaps where light can still escape. Roots reach the sky before flowers do.