[ WP ] The entire purpose of living is to find a memory powerful enough to keep you sane in purgatory so you can enjoy paradise after .

Flip. Flip. You turn one of the endless pages of a photo album. Your small hand gets stuck on a particular page ’ s plastic wrap that has been covering a photo of a Polaroid. The Polaroid is of your father as a young man on a family vacation that occurred before your Earth life occurred. Your memory is of flipping through a photo album in your grandmother ’ s basement 20 floors up. 
 
 You think of your father and grandmother; hoping they actually had one memory that they could unhesitatingly flip to when they arrived in purgatory. Nothing in life stands out to you. The quantity of memories is fantastically large; every other page of this near-brimstone photo album gives a giggle or a heartache of a past memory. But when looking back, no memory is stable enough for sanity. 
 
 Every memory is a picture under a toxic-glue layered piece of plastic; no memory is a vivid vista of reality.
