People, places, long ago events: all crowd the margins and flicker out the corner of my eye as I reread.
There's only one problem with this. Paper diaries state unarguably that in August I was reading The Armour of the Light, and that I read and finished Point of Dreams in July. And of that I remember nothing except, sort of, reading the book in my bro's hot and empty kitchen: cat-sitting while he was off in France chaperoning Aunt H.