Memories nest in the tracks that time leaves, providing refuge for those that find their daily lives acerbic yet need not the reckless wonders of the cold, unfeeling gulfs. These are the ones who choose to stay behind as time rages on like a blind and fearless juggernaut, making their home the inner spheres where intimate sights and sounds hold sway. Here clouds crawl at a lethargic pace, shielding the cosmic secrets from such timid and untried eyes; allowing only the perfect shade of light to fall on sinless shingled roofs and thickly scented lawns, where streets nearly emptied by a world preoccupied with sleep hum with a strange cicada lullaby. A warm evening breeze snakes through the diorama, creeping in through back screen doors to battle with the gusts thrown from living room fans. Inside familiar smells cling to musty, yellowed walls and the crackle of a man fumbling through a newspaper speckles the otherwise dreary household air. A stained-glass ornament filters cryptic flavors of light onto a cold kitchen floor, while a warm stove window reveals a pie soaking in an amber luminescence. The near subliminal pulse of a dishwasher burrows into the mind of a sleeping child, mimicking a cadence suggested in the womb, and the bold ticks of a clock find their way across a silent room in an effort to invoke a genuine trance.

       The gears of a tiny universe labor incessantly, guided by an ambient life force found just within our reach; boasting of innocence unaltered by the outside world and safe from nameless, clawing forces lurking just beyond the rim. Like a world-worn yet devoted lover truthful till the dawn of death, memorabilia safely guarded lingers behind all we see… waiting for some lucky soul to turn a stone and crack its code, whisked away to quiet havens cosseted between our lives.