There’s a part of me that’s over there, and another that’s over here. There’s a version of you drunkenly playing an imaginary piano and one that’s taking photographs of a frozen body of water decorated with hundreds of animal tracks. Next to a fallen log covered in moss, I sink to my knees and breathe in the scent of these memories. Mine. Yours. Even those belonging to the animals that witnessed our steps back when we walked hand in hand on sepia evenings, talking of the days that had then yet to pass. I’ve lived a thousand deaths, yet I’m still knocking around, chasing after the music of yesterday. It’s not gone, and nor is it lost. It’s right here, somewhere. I’m separated from it by God’s will. Not that I believe in the will of God, but it believes in me. We don’t speak, but I listen. I watch the sky and glimpse birds desperately trying to escape. On the ground by my feet, there are insects of which I don’t know the name, but they know mine, and although I shy from their touch, their wonders make me smile. The sun hides. The living trees are green, as are the dead ones. I’ll be here again, and yet I never left, for time comes around so quickly. I say it comes around; it’s still the same, for all moments spin like coins with no sign of diminishing. We are as we once were and will be as we always have been, just on the other side of knowing.