There is something tremendously eerie about being in a place where you have been before, a place where your feet have rested in nearly the same place, yet in different times and in different circumstances. The ghosts of your previous persons look over your own haunting shoulder from the previous moment, with glimpses of that past time and quickly passing flashes of presently-tinged thought of those same moments. The vision from the past into the present becomes even more abstract on those evenings where the storms leave a damp reminder of its power on the road that slowly rises to obscure the view from behind the front lamp of the motorcycle or that, again, slowly creeps over your shoulder with the humid breath of an evening after a storm.

There was definite company this evening, even if it came from within the cobwebbed corners of own memory. The fog that ran across the pavement with the wind that ruffled the wet flag quickly enough that I was like time was running through all of the previous instances of my being there. The view through the eyepiece of the camera was even more apropos, as it became the newest memory to haunt me in that place, to remind me of another moment in time, where my existence was the same, but my awareness completely different. It will be the newest moment to pass-by in the clouds of an insecure tomorrow.