And although the actor was only in his sixties, as soon as I heard the story of the notes on the counter, the forgotten lines—not even forgotten, because they had not been retained and then lost again, they had evaded his mind’s grasp altogether—as soon as I heard this, I was able to envision his death. I was able to imagine the parabolic arc of his decline, I understood that eventually his mind would disintegrate to the point that his memory, of the world and of himself, would be lost, and with it everything that formed his being.
