The potion certainly is a capricious tool to work with, and one who consumes it will suffer from memory loss, but to what degree is difficult to predict. Lately, I have become skilled at matching the body of the prisoner with the amount of rose oil. However, there are still prisoners who take me by surprise. Emanuel, the poucher, roused from his unconsciousness rambling, "Deliver the cube. Must deliver. Conveyor belts." His words meant nothing to me. The prisoners rarely tried to address me in English: everyone knew I spoke their language quite well. I grabbed him and hushed his manic rant. Emanuel calmed down and looked at me with his frightened eyes. He spoke: "The machine must travel. We are late. north ajkbeguines." As his voice resonated within me it felt important, maybe even prophetic. I asked him what I could do to help, if there was an answer to this riddle. He cried and said, "Conveyor belts.