I remember everything about her. The lies, the dandruff, the sugar-free smiles at disinterested strangers singing doleful songs of overworked infants. Mastery of grains eluded her, as will future reversals of inevitability, future turntables spinning in warped inaccessibility of professorial dismissiveness. Her voice crackles through society’s busy entrails, rising with heathen force over pocketed fists, fists clenched in nervous anticipation of unexplained outbursts, mighty craps of rage forseen by no one except retrospective authorities and analysts of psychological obscurities swept under forgotten coffee tables along with chortles of rain and misery. Everything about her seems different now, everything she said about herself was wrong, misguided, misinterpreted by herself and passed along as gossip to treadmills of unread correspondences and unanswered telephone calls transformed into conspiracies of the damned. No songs symbolize her memory, no words speak of her character, no monuments are planned to commemorate her carnage.