Films do a terrible job of representing the textures of memory or its ambiguities. To make matters worse, the clunky device of a flashback dispenses with Memory itself as just another mode of storytelling, a (merely) parallel arrow of narrative time. No, no, that won't do. Remembering occurs through a succession of still images, through tableaux vivant that blur into the present moment.

Of late I am quite reminded of a particular image: September 29, 2015. I am reclining on the grass of a sunny afternoon in Dublin, surrounded by friendships (two of which melted away, no floating platypus or molten clock to recognise them by), rosy false dawns, and an ephemeral bliss...Le bonheur écrit à l'encre blanche sur des pages blanches. Voilà.

Perhaps the most moving of acquaintances are made under a fleeting sun, not through years of having known the other. We do not ''go way back,'' but the drowsy acceptance of soft grass and the other's comforting presence thaws our souls. Sets us free. Even in the act of remembering how it was. Even through the distortions of formaldehyde. Joy is impossible to describe, but instantly perceived.