It seems that I can only recall love vaguely as a semblance of hopes and wishes unfulfilled now long past. A wayward song long forgotten refreshed again anew on a dusty recording that had carried me away as a foolishly youthful adult. What was the purpose I have to wonder. All that struggle in someone else’s arms? At first to get into them and then to tussle just as hard to depart. That cycle repeated just so often. Who has time for real love in this world! Who can give it it’s just due? All of us both men and women perpetrators in our own undoing. A dusty kind of selfishness. The sounds of our fateful youth sung back to us as a foregone conclusion before it had even begun. The bookend at the other end premeditated by wanting to retrace those steps instead of just going forth. That immortal past. Too much pain in celebration and too little time to ever get a proper response. All those that we told ourselves we loved, once loved, no longer loved, now like batteries run out. Dark shadowed bridles everywhere. Acid tunes leaking over our own fingertips in despair. A mouthpiece for a voice unknown that moves our lips without ever speaking. That old soul that once was, now long ago calcified gone to stone. Why was one ever born? How truly sad to still be around after this long ago past, still without that sort of oxygen!