Can memory be an ocean, with every new event a particle slowly sinking until it’s reached the sands of oblivion? And if so, are there any trembling grounds in the deep powerful enough to unearth that particle and bear it back to the surface, under the form of a ripple? Can the echo of laughter be so distraught as to emerge in tidal waves? Could we save our breath into a floating bottle, send it to sea and then, on our deathbed, regain it so as to whisper one more word in a perfumed ear? Can we clutch at whirlpools caused by the rocks we throw and, if so, can we turn the water’s movement anti-clockwise? Is it loneliness or the warmth of an embrace we seek when delving into the inundated chasms of our conscience? Should we wallow in our fingerprints or let them drown?