When I remember my life, how I moved through the world before it all changed,
I cannot hear laughter.
I cannot smell delicious aromas of the city.
I cannot see the smiling eyes of my dearest friend.
I remember the fear.
The rot.
The crying.
The stink of disease.
I remember the dread, and it will not leave me.
How can I teach myself to see and hear and recall
What once was beautiful?
I must borrow such feelings from those who still live in the world.