The Persistence of Memory

This city, like a string drawn between yesterday and tomorrow, you know all you have lost and left behind.
You cannot see what lies ahead clearly.
But a horizontal gravity thrusts you into the thick of tomorrow, to an enchanting unknown in an unfinished poem you are about to begin.
Then it will take charge of its course.

People called me a dreamer when I said that there is a type of love; stretched from dream to reality...

Have things I remembered ever happened?

In Poetically well built memory, formed from the heart's compulsions;
we are consoled not by finding ourselves returning to the city that we love,
but by losing all sense of time.