Through the cemetery with the wind and rain in my face, I momentarily forget myself. I’m moving through time, zipping back and forth between the past and the present like a dragonfly drunk on sunshine. The gravestones that surround me don’t say a word, but they observe with diligence the same as they’ve done since I was a kid. Perhaps they envy the marrow in my bones and the air in my lungs or are merely mocking me for thinking that I’m free when really, I’m simply delaying the inevitable. Sheltering in the archway of the church I’ve known my entire life, my mind is riddled with fragments of thoughts and slithers of memories as delicate as strands of hair. There are images of lovers, of their eyes mirroring mine on soft pillows of cotton dosed in moonlight, and then there are the nameless feelings that come and go like the whiff of fresh fruit on market day. There used to be a market in town that drew crowds numbering in the thousands. Every Saturday, it was. I remember walking through it with my mother and grandmother before we did our big shop at the supermarket. I remember the giant trees that overlooked all the stalls, and how in the winter months, they were home to equally giant cobwebs that shone in the early morning light as if electrified. If I squint my eyes, I’m right there, and I’m also back being a teenager in those dizzy days of PlayStation games and the discovery of masturbation while flicking through the muted pages of a tame porno. The wind scratches my face. It paws me like a cat. I don’t know where I am at all.