sepia ovenbird The pictures in my album have faded to sepia. I'm standing amidst ruins and my face is alabaster, ancient as a gargoyle. Everything is the colour of the past and I'm disappearing into it. These pictures don't always trigger memories anymore. My journal is full of words written by a stranger. All this living but when I sift through the past it is pottery ground to dust. No shards large enough to piece together an artifact that would help me see how we lived in a long ago before-time. My dreams disintegrate, the fabric so moth eaten it's more holes than heft. 250531 what's it to you? who go blather from