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Old music reminds me of snow-caped graves under dull, color-less lights.

A broken song for empty places no matter how full they seem to be. We used to walk on soiled frosted sidewalks, in the cutting wind, in the endless winter, pulled black masks over our frightened faces, and walked in search of some identity that was more than ours, in narrow places, in thin aisle, we sat and flipped through discarded pages, words cut out of better books left to float in a forgotten backwater, and a red sun hung above us never rising, never setting, and the light was cruel, exposing all our weakness.

Shame found me there, and failure, and redemption was too much to hope for, even forgiveness was more that what was deserved, so I settled for time and the salve of forgetfulness. Lines settled into complacency, we mistook anxiety for adventures but though it all, there was a shelter we could find in the shadow of the day, in the smallest hours of the night.

Encased between two black circles and the loneliness of midnight, illuminated by the glow of warm light from an otherworld, we found an escape, and the sun set at last, leaving us alone, for a little while. There we found words growing among fields of wildflowers and plucked them and strung them together into garlands of story, and the smell and color of a million flowers elevated us, for a minute, and when a chill crept through the room, when the light faded, and the door opened at last with the sound of a weary tread returning home, the hour was a surprise, the location, a mystery, the journey - documented, stamped, inked and approved, witnessed and notarized.

Old music drags me back into cold days, in the shadow of dead trees, boots crunching frozen snow, tread marks left on concrete bunker underground chamber steps leading into black open metal gates that offer shelter, and swallow into the underneath and something is lost there forever, wandering alone and lost

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