Old songs are like gates to hell - olfactory bulb passages to the sealed, transcendent capsules of buried memories, of selves cast behind, where behind is, actually, a place below - a hippocampus cavern, an amygdale heaven. A limbic pouch, in which time deposits the ashes of love. Listening to yesterday’s wind blow, looking back, behind, below, what do we expect to find there? Ashes of roses, the ashes of our lives. The unrecruitable nothing, which used to be everything for us.
