In the cigarette smoke there were pictures. And as the smoke rose and dissipated, so the pictures faded and were gone. At the window a view of the old gate in the field unused.      Beyond the gate the fields rolled on forever. These were the meadows for the pathways of the travelers or perhaps they were pathways for the meadows themselves untraveled.      In the shadows of the sun lay memories. As within the pictures of the smoke or in the vision of an eye still closed, they wandered. Were the memories real with myself the shadows image. Or were the pictures, the viewer and the space between them, all but nothing.      I knew there was purpose in my presence here and understood its gravity. Yet how to perform this role or roles and for whom. What wisdom required that my thoughts alone should ponder such meanings. And why was I so haunted with memories yet without recollection.      This house immortal, having no soul to shed, had itself fathered no dreams. To arrive, if one had ever left, was to dream and to fill the space of the void before and after. A place of one but... Read more