Seated by the lounge window, staring into the mild, late afternoon sun, a view flooding over the fields of maze and wheat. I place a china cup into a china saucer and onto the coffee table, next to the reminisce of two scones which I have just consumed; eaten with half fat creme.
Upon doing so I think of the road that I drove to purchase these items from the store. The road that I have walked many times, on various nights, in various states of mind, the road that I no longer walk, and instead drive.
The green where I used to play, lined with houses, the insides of which were familiar, but are no longer, and the green a safari for another to explore.
The house with the intercom we use to abuse, which now hangs off of the wall. And the house next to it, it's once formal gardens, photographed for magazines, now overgrown, swallowed by disinterest.
And then I pick up another scone, and bring it to my lips. And then I forget the road that I drove to purchase these items. Like many others have.