Prologue I

Stefano’s Journal

Wednesday 17 August 1988

Listen: memory serves its purpose, and then gets out of the way. Having been “blessed” with long life, I don’t suppose I’ll ever have that most wondrous feeling of slowly losing my memory, of having the past grow greyer with each passing year. Everything, even after so long, is clear as a bell. Only blue skies here, I’m afraid.

The question I dread the most is, “Do you remember where you were when?” The unfortunate part of the question is, as time rolls on, so do the historical events. Not many care about what they were doing when they heard about the stock market crashing these days. Fewer still are the ones who can recall the day that Franz Ferdinand was shot. (Not many heard about it on the day it happened, actually.) The peoples, they grow older, grey in hair and mind. O, how I wish for such bliss...

The question, however, has transformed ever so slightly over these years. As we continue along this technological era, the information flows faster and faster. Now it’s no longer a week that passes before you find out your country is at war (and with whom; gossip amongst the proles, or somesuch), it’s an hour. I shudder to think what order of magnitude this information is flowing at during Gil’s time...

The question, it seems, is increasingly being used for lesser important historical landmarks, yet becoming more endearing to those who use it.