The echoes of long ago: laughter and beauty. Where have they gone? Faded into oblivion.
Loss of any beautiful thing is a sorrowful and miserable thing.
There is no bridge to the past,
just a wide open gap. A gorge; hungry for time.
You can stand at the edge and stare out, but you can never reach the other bank.
those voices become faraway echoes or taunting whispers, but their faces are too far away to see; their smile is burned in your mind, but you can’t remember all the flecks in their eyes.
…Time is a thief of all beautiful and good things.
Popp!nTalk 