Grains of his earthy voice have been eroded with the passing of time, but I suppose that’s what it means to forget, isn’t it? It’s about collecting past embraces and using them to heat your coffee. It’s about stitching all of the times you’ve touched a person together and giving the twine a second life; using it to tie shoes and to draw curtains. Forgetting is about prying apart open wounds and transforming them into rainwater catchments, botanical gardens, fishponds. It’s about wearing rings which turn your fingers green in an attempt to prove you’re capable of being tainted by something other than an ex-lover’s touch. To forget is to heal, sometimes.