The unseasonable warmth has made this grass so slick. Two beacons usher visitors towards stone turrets and a bench stares vacant out and beyond a vast dark ocean. Some things will just always be. For the rest, and specifically those not chronicled as a piece of historical relevence, there have got to be other means. Villages flooded, turned into resevoirs, the towering horror that was a fortress, holiday playgrounds cracked and heaving.
These wells are still full.
All through a life. Clock resets. Floodgates open then close. Recollection drifts through a winding treetop daydream. Disappears. These moments, foundations, scattered dustbowl alleys washed away like dead cities.
Come back. Deep into the warmest summers, and further along into barren frigid autumn…what memory lasts. Flood water recedes into the mire. Reveal the old foundation. Stir the dust from another lifetime. Remember.
Embrace the feeling, when it returns to the well, those waves come rushing.
Digital is fleeting, vinyl is forever.