The third time
Of the third time there were left no traces. Only memories. But such memories have no foothold in reality, as there isn't anything, any object, any place, to bring them back and to make them alive, if only for a moment. I can no longer precise the moment when it begun, or the day when it was over, although I do remember both moments clearly. There was nothing left behind, nothing new that would make me remember that particular time, as if nothing significant had happened. All the mementos of the past belong themselves to another past, more distant, more meaningul, happier even. Not to the last days that were shared, to the last moments of solace just before the impending disaster.