The memories come in wisps. They blow through the wind and creep up on me when I least expect it. I sit outside and feel the wind rush across the street, then a few words of a forgotten song plays and drapes me in thick nostalgia. I remember on Tuesdays I would sit on a piano stool in a quiet room, a place where outside sounds arrived in faint gasps, and brush keys with my fingers. And when I took away my hand the piano left traces of dust where my press had lingered. On those days, there was nothing to do but let yourself drift. I didn't think to play the piano, I don't think I had ever learnt how. But I rested on the keys and brushed away slivers of dust so it didn't feel as lonely. I learnt the signifigance of appearance. Sometimes I sat with a friend I have long since forgotten and listened to her play shaky chords of sad songs that she sung in a whisper, and the beauty of it made the room feel like it was sinking into the sea, to a place so small and deep underground you lost the concept of 'outside.' There was just here, and us, and the slow trickle of notes. I've forgotten so much of my life, so many thoughts, so many feelings, so many faraway dreams, but every time I hear the flutter of a piano I think of Tuesday afternoons and diving deep, deep under, into a darkness so complete you could, for a fleeting second,

see.