Day 980

There are things in this world that we've made that remember a great deal better than we do, and for so much longer too. All those vintage, hand-me-down, cheap-o shops that come and go like bugs on a corpse are nothing but memories loosely kept in whatever knickknacks are present at the time.

They almost become brains, weaving webs of thought and former lives between shoelaces, doll's hair and cracked leather belts whose lines vaguely resemble someone you walked past when you were a child. Though we can't hear it they talk amongst themselves about whose lives they've been a part of until their stories gradually warp and twist until they lose their original tale and become a sentence fragment in a near-endless train of thought.

In the larger shops they aren't limited to these networks, they are strong enough to feel ours and take little strands of worse to bring us into their stories. It's that feeling of walking into a room and not knowing why you came in there, the way that older shops have a nostalgic feel to them, even though you've never been there before.

In a way it's not as bad as it may seem. Though we lose small parts of ourselves to our own possessions and the possessions of strangers, where any memory we have ever held can be taken at any moment, we are also made immortal in their unheard babble of stolen lives.