Perceptions form stale memories, which feed anticipation, expectations. The lumbering machine of time grinds on, stamping out reality.

Through the bars of the rusted gate, a garden awaits, choked with weeds. The children are gone. Our play structure verily vanished. Long evaporated echoes of shrill shouts. The stones tell no tales. Silent and damp. Forgotten.

The rusted gate screams, yielding to a rough shove. It clangs, reverberates, bounces back off an unseen, broken block. A sound straight from my prison cell. I shudder, squeeze through the gap.

Things have changed. Familiar, yet warped. Childhood dreams, rust, paint chips rub off.

Picture copyright by David Stewart.

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