If I woke up one morning with my memory gone. I'd pick out some clothes and I'd put 'em on. And I'd walk down the street, and find a cafe. And I'd order a Guinness, and I'd sit there all day.
Everything just right, sugar and old spice. Under the thumb for the last time now. He exits his old cell. There's a priest casting old spells. . Then he takes the walk.
Souls suffer the landscape. In shrouds of dew, as ghosts. The eternity is for searching. But a certain dissension grows. . I've seen them wander. Voices raised in prayer.