The Universe's Mixer

It was an insightful article by Ms. Hylie, presenting a brave face in an atmosphere of prevailing chaos. Ever since the shift they have been trying to impose a structure in this place, or go on with the show, only with half of the characters gone. They insist on keeping records - archives and police reports - so that memories may be passed on, touched, and locked in a filing cabinet safe from the ravages of mass-amnesia.

I set the City Voice down on my desk and look out the window. None of those people out there understand this place the way I do, especially the pawns. You almost grow to hate them at times, the ones who walk through life half-asleep, content to be a function of collective forgetfulness, accepting whatever bland reminiscences sputter along behind their dead eyes. I used to envy them when I worked for the Strangers. At least they have a sense of self, even if I gave it to them.

The people who were brought here, on the other hand, the ones with memories of other places, seem to burn like torches through a dim fog. I find myself clinging to their humanity - the small gestures of kindness, genuine expressions of emotion - smiling to myself as if I am gazing at the seeds of a bright future. Real memories glow behind their eyes, and the envy almost cripples me. I rub the heel of my hand against my sternum, encouraging my fluttering heart into a regular beat.

Is there such a thing as too much memory? If so, this place suffers from it. It accumulates and congeals into buildings and park benches, a geographical pastiche extracted from the minds of its inhabitants. It is democratic and anarchic at the same time. These days the buildings seem more solid and grandiose somehow, as people cling to their memories with more ferocity than ever. At least they appreciate what they have.

It occurs to me that I am like the City - an extractor and artisan of memories, but with none of my own. Every day we are re-set, reborn, reconstituted out of an unselfconscious void. I am the silent witness of a world trying to recall itself.

I decide to initiate contact.

"I know. you are listening. We need. to talk."

I know this is not how they felt when they woke up from their artificial slumbers. They would not feel disoriented, or unsettled, or fundamentally wrong. They wouldn't notice the difference, and would just csrry on with a life they only remembered because I made them remember it. I was good at my job.

For that matter, I should be used to cities that change themselves constantly, but I have a feeling this is not just another shift. I stand at the window, knowing full well it is a different window, looking at a skyline that looks like a cardiac arrhythmia. It is as if the City has been purged and re-formed. When the Strangers did this, it was because people were rejecting the experiment.

My job is more important than ever.

I have placed an ad in the paper:

"Feeling lost and confused? Need someone to talk to?

Dr. Daniel Schreber, Ph. D.

Counselling, psychotherapy and regression therapy."

This should draw in anyone with paranoia - anyone who is likely to cause trouble.

I was never one to promote myself, or at least I wasn't when I worked for the Strangers. I only treated those who the Strangers wished me to watch, and in order to get a patient, I had only to inject a new subject with the memory of having seen me before. I have both more freedom and less control. It is a dizzying combination.

I wish I knew what happened.