--The room is cold, the air is quite crisp. Bringing back memories of other rooms, in other places, and other times. Just about but not quite like this. The same yet so different. But how can this be.
--Like a painting seen in different light that’s the tricks, of memories. Like pages of a giant book blowing in the wind, they flip. Leaving in their wake whatever it is that was written for the future to compare.
--So many times forgetting was it was that made them shine, or to dark to ever want to go back there.
--The spark of life is never what was but what is, and that’s found in the light of each new day. Where the seeds of memories yet to come do lay...
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