This is what I get for trying to live in the present while everyone else is living in the past; a string of my own broken hearts to hang like garland for the holidays. Memories aren’t real– how can they be? They are figments of time frozen in our mind, which is anything but static. I remember as a child crunching over the deep tracks left by tires in winter– the soil let the damp of night in, leaving frosted tracks in the morning. It will take the gentle unfolding of spring for my tracks to thaw. I don’t know about you, but I know I’ll melt like a glacier.
Young of Blood 