A memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth, but not its twin.
My memory is so very untrustworthy. It’s as fickle as a fox. Ask me to name the third lateral blood vessel from the extremity of my index finger that runs east to west when I lie on my face at sundown, or the percentage of chalk to be found in the knuckles of an average spinster in her fifty-seventh year . . . these things are no tax upon my memory, ha, ha, ha! But ask me to remember exactly what you said your problems were, a minute ago, and you will find that my memory has forsaken me utterly.