And when we're gone, who will ask, when no-one asked when we were here.
The light fades, autumn returns. Many years have passed. Sometimes, in the stillness, it appears as if a moment is carrying with it many, many years. These years have no weight yet they seem to fill the space of your life. It's not that they're remembered or stretched out in front of you like a map that you could read; rather it's as if I've entered that time again and they take me in again for some unbidden reason that remains a mystery. And then, just as suddenly as time was breached it flows again. A bird chirps, there is the clanking of teacups in an adjacent room. I look at myself in the untrustworthy mirror again. Am I dreaming?
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