Autumn races onward. Another full moon approaches. We soon turn back the clocks to darkness. Inevitable time. Despite the efforts of the sentimental and religious, it is unrepeatable, irrevocable. Unbearable, perhaps, relentless.
"Do you remember the time we were. . . "
"Sure I do."
"That was really something then. We were really something."
"So it seemed."
Memories, glorious and haunting, not easy to share, aspiring to mythology, falling so far short as to be disheartening.
We were all heroes one day for a brief moment. They call it modern art.
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