Paul Klee Zitronen

FORGET ANYTHING. EVERYTHING.
'It . . . er . . . it happens automatically.' The prospective acolytes had turned the bend on the mountain path. The holy man hastily picked up his begging bowl.
'Let's say this bowl 'But alcohol debilitates the body and is a poison to the soul.'
SOUNDS GOOD TO ME.
'Master?'
The holy man looked around irritably. The acolytes had arrived.
'Just a minute, I'm talking to–’is your memory,' he said, waving it vaguely. 'It can only hold so much, see? New things come in, so old things must overflow–’NO. I REMEMBER EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING. DOORKNOBS. THE PLAY OF SUNLIGHT ON HAIR. THE SOUND OF LAUGHTER. FOOTSTEPS. EVERY LITTLE DETAIL. AS IF IT HAPPENED ONLY YESTERDAY. AS IF IT HAPPENED ONLY TOMMOROW. EVERYTHING. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?The holy man scratched his gleaming bald head.'Traditionally,' he said, 'the ways of forgetting include joining the Klatchian Foreign Legion, drinking the waters of some magical river, no‑one knows where it is, and imbibing vast amounts of alcohol.'AH, YES.