You forget who you were until winter comes around again. Reminiscent of old memories. Stuffed up pillows you never used to use, surrounding your body in bed for warmth. The warmth of a season cold. Jacket wheather.

The warmth of memories and melodies. Songs on your iPod you forgot you had, rushing it all back into your head in two minutes, eighteen seconds.

The nearly equal dates. The nearly equal events. The revival of an era in which you were so unaware, and yet probably so much more aware than you are now.

It is a season dry but beautiful. Wispy winds clean as white bedhseets. The hollow light that brings the sunlight close, but not nearly close enough.

I was happier then, I think, in a twisted point of view. Actually, I think that's a lie in favour of poetic license. But I am not here to judge, or to spell check: I'm here to narrate while I hold my breath.

It's hard to pin this feeling, but it's true what I say: we used to be so young, and now we're even younger.

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