The Vulture

The accuracy of my memory stopped concerning me when I realized that I could no longer remember much of anything. I feel sure that each new memory erases an old one. My memory is eaten away at by something within me and because of this, I log everything that happens in my day. I note conversations and how I feel about them; I write down the color of the sky. My notebook is my second skin. Yet, each moment that I attack with my pen is already dead. I am feeding on the carrion of the past and now makes me hungry.