Beautiful writing of the difficult and inconceivable time when a friend has lost their memory. It made me very scared of that happening to me or to my friends, and having to suffer what the author has, the intangible loss and hideous loneliness.

The ghastly originality of the disease, for me, is becoming a cliché, another mode, predictable now, of communication. I have eased into illness, as well, into its rhetoric; nothing surprises me anymore. This ought to be a consolation, probably, but for reason i find it alarming. Because I’ll no longer have anything to write about?