I realized the shells were talking in a voice I recognized. I should have; it...

I realized the shells were talking in a voice I recognized. I should have; it was my own. Had I always known that? I suppose I had. On some level, unless we're mad, I think most of us know the various voices of our own imaginations.
And of our memories, of course. They have voices, too. Ask anyone who has ever lost a limb or a child or a long-cherished dream. Ask anyone who blames himself for a bad decision, usually made in a raw instant {an instant that is most commonly red}. Our memories have voices, too. Often sad ones that clamor like raised arms in the dark.