If what never happened and exactly what happened can knock up against each other in this room, if we can’t agree on the sequence of events, if we can see things that aren’t there and remember things that never happened to us, what’s the difference, really? It didn’t happen to me. I make it happen to me. What’s the difference, I tell myself again and again. It exists as much as it ever did. Like a memory or a rumour is something that lives of its own volition, passed from ear to ear. Waiting to be tried on, altered, archived.
