Every once in a while we play a little memory tape in the frail light of our minds.. There isn't much we know that hasn't already been. Never much we crave that we haven't already lost. Living is a real raw flesh and blood thing shimmering and pulsing in the corridors of Time. And Dying a blind brainless walk backwards into Life. Maybe I am a remembrance in some mind. Or a pale and flickering little trick of the light– there, but not quite. And never something to look for.
If only I could turn around before its too late to set things right.
Not old enough to be crazed by clocks. Yet.