There are spots of time where one has been a thousand thousand times before. And each time is as perfect as the last. Each time is no more perfect than another. And one can sift for that remembrance or this one. And one would never be wrong. One would never be right. And, again, these spaces in memory, in time itself, one must always go to again. So that: when you choose to show them to somebody else, it doesn’t really matter which year, or even which month you had or have been there. There is no real beginning to it, and there is no real end. But if upon a summer’s eve, you should take down this book, if you open the cover to an ancient album, then it may come to pass that you will look into the eyes of another’s gaze and see where, before a word was ever first spoken, someone was stirring about at the beginning, sometime before daybreak.