[That doesn't seem right. What about this has to do with memory?]
what memories
[There's something on the precipice of their mind, the lip of a realization that does not want to spill over. Something they can hold back or allow to leak into the rest of them like an opened wound, a warm coil of heat out across their front, like a spray of pink.]
[Trace their friend's face in their mind. Pale floss of hair falling in untidy tufts, dark eyes round and glistening in the internal lights.]
[The sickly sweet scent of rot has begun to seep in beneath the cracks in the door.]
no subject
[That doesn't seem right. What about this has to do with memory?]
what memories
[There's something on the precipice of their mind, the lip of a realization that does not want to spill over. Something they can hold back or allow to leak into the rest of them like an opened wound, a warm coil of heat out across their front, like a spray of pink.]
[Trace their friend's face in their mind. Pale floss of hair falling in untidy tufts, dark eyes round and glistening in the internal lights.]
[The sickly sweet scent of rot has begun to seep in beneath the cracks in the door.]