The thing about memories is, they are totally unpredictable and we never know, where they come from. Do we grow them, shape them or is there something, deep inside of us, that owns a thing like the truth? Probably it is a bit of all of these and actually, I strongly believe we somehow make a good part of them up. Maybe to feed a certain need, a spot that wants to be filled with pictures that we control. Be it concious or not. When coming across something green, for example, I am often reminded of an old story that is deeply connected to my childhood. There is the image of me, sitting in the back of a dark green Mercedes Benz. I clearly remember the place it was parked, see the old flowershop, close to the apartment I grew up in until I was thirteen. No idea who I was with, only I had to wait for them quite a while. There is wether a good or an uneasy emotion attached to the story. The only thing I recall, is the waiting. Strangely enough, my mother always tells me, there was no story like this. Never. We did not know someone with a car like this and I had not been alone in somebody else's car in that area. She is as much as convinced about the fact the story has not happened, as I am that it definitely took place. Over the years the story became some kind of a synonym for her, that I was about to make something up or imagine things. "Are we seeing a green Benz again?" For many years, her joking made me really angry and actually, it did quite upset me. It simply had been too vivid to not to be true. Today, I mainly laugh. Still convinced about my version, of course.