On a path in a town with many buildings are a series of caves of which I once visited in my youth. The caves were connected by a series of narrow tunnels. It was cold, and I was hormonal. The caves were of significant, historical value. The only lasting impression they had on me was the dreadful sense of doom I had fearing the ceiling was going to collapse. The town above once had a bus station. It still does, but not the one I’m talking about. The original one was knocked down to make way for a shopping centre. The shopping centre is home to the bookstore I worked in. The last time I visited, almost a decade had passed since I had last worn the customary black staff uniform with the black name badge on the left breast that never held my name only a blank space instead. There were many ghosts I saw, my own included. Walking around the shelves of assorted books, I felt both alive and dead at the same time, and it struck me that although I concern myself with the realisation that love might not be enough, what does it matter when in the end, we’ll be nothing but dust. There are many memories of that town that are with me right now, but there are many others that have slipped from my grasp. Those moments are still out there, but now they’re as lost as a crisp packet blowing in the wind down the alleyway between the church and the room where I once lived. There was a field. Sometimes, on my walks, the field would be filled with a thick fog, and it would make me feel things I knew weren’t real. I wish those days were with me again, but try as I might, I can’t find them. There was a pet store near the train station. Opposite the newly opened restaurant that specialised in Thai. The pet store sold gift cards. Gift cards adorned with the images of cats, dogs, rats and parrots. I never bought any, but I wish I did. I wish more than anything that I had a souvenir from those times that are now far behind me.