Anomaly

Moving.
Going through the motions; collecting.
Memories.
One by one.
Mechanical.
Emotionless.
Just, collecting.
Putting them in bags, in boxes, steel vaults.
Sealing them up with ties, with tape, with locks.
Shipwrecked debris, barely surviving; drifting along.
Staring up into nothing.
Thinking nothing.
Feeling. . .
   nothing.

Until, a strange sight comes into view.

There, in the corner, above the bedroom window,
   where the wall meets the ceiling,
sits . . .  a frog.