The fragments with which we build these histories are only provisionally true. Some of the fragments are false, some of the details are embellished. William Merritt Chase said "there is nothing so boring as a man that is scrupulously honest." None of the fragments stored within our meat partake of the universal totality of every instant, most of which, if it is known to us at all, is only comprehended at some very deep level. 

It is one of the many flaws of language that not everything that is happening, everywhere and at every instant can be packed into a paragraph. That is also fortunate, as it would dull the dramatic impact of, say, a descriptive account of a lonely stroll down a forgotten path if it must share the same moment with collisions of worlds, the ferocious burning of stars, and the simultaneous births of a trillion creatures.

All of this is to say that, although I will try to keep some semblance of chronology as I lay the cobbles of the road that I've travelled, I cannot promise that I won't be seduced by tangents, beguiled by the paths that I didn't take, or simply incapable of recalling the order of events as they transpired.

What follows then is my story, as best as I can piece it together.