Memory is a strange thing. Every time you look down the tunnel you see what you want to see, magnified and amplified, and sometimes that thing at the other end of the tunnel looks back at you.

And it tells you, it didn't have to be this way.

The times it didn't work out, Farisha abandons it, leaves it to dry. Afterwards she comes back and paints over it. Bright hues, soft and supple, charming when she wants it to be, like the very core of a dream. But memories aren't written down on the side of a train or warehouse. Memory smears. Memory stains. Memory tears, infects, destroys. Memory is a pond of dead water, a thin gloss of promise made to falter. 

And when you dip yourself in that pond, you'll find that it's turned black with all the fucking paint you've poured in, from all those times you've tried to restart, all those abandoned beginnings.

At the end of the day, she thinks, maybe it was impossible to restart after the first time she screwed up.