'Thinking, tangling shadows in the deep solitude', writes Neruda.

Some moments, if you put them away long enough like pressed leaves, turn into an obscure musing from the past. Veins remain, as a pretty painting to the soul, without the fragrance or the wind that it once soaked into its being. And the wind, the winding path, the tree, the park bench - you start to wonder if they may only have been a figment of your imagination after all.