And that strange sensation when you open a file to discover a poem which you clearly wrote at some point in the last few years—it is definitely in your style, and refers to your other work, and it’s pretty good and mostly finished, too—and yet, you have no recollection, or perhaps only the slightest glimmer of a memory, of having written it. "I wrote that?” What if there are whole other lives that I’ve forgotten? Whole books sprouted from my mind when I wasn’t paying attention? -archaeology

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