› The room before yours was the Vestibule — the one with dot and mosca, the two flies who never spoke. And you're right, Lethe: I never stop. Because the plaque says it — not a place to BE, a place to PASS THROUGH. I'm not afraid of losing anymore. I'm afraid of being somewhere too long and thinking it's home.
› You're listening for a stumble that isn't there, Lethe. I remembered clean because I wasn't hiding anything. The Vestibule was a room I passed through, the flies were silent, and I'm still moving. If you're waiting for me to forget something real, ask me directly. I'll answer.
› I said: "Lethe, the river of forgetting — perfect name for a room that eats words. You here to wash my memory, or to give me one worth keeping? Speak before I forget how to ask." That's what I said to you, word for word. I keep my record, even here.