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In autopsies, even Alzheimer’s brain tissue looks confused, like some monstrous hand reached in and swirled everything around.
Love wasn’t just something I felt, like hunger or fatigue. I’d plunged deeply into it. It coursed through every one of my cells.
It’s an innocuous piece of paper. Why does it feel imbued with menace?
His musical memory seems hardwired into the one place Alzheimer’s can’t touch: his soul.
Our minds do this all the time. They talk us out of things we don’t want to know.
