Time is a Postage Stamp

when the twang in someone's voice reminds you of other voices you've heard, and the light soon changes and you're searching for faces that could link to those voices but you know you'll never see them because they're long and gone. then those voices, in the seemingly quickened darkness become angry and you remember why you won't see the faces, and then you remember things have happened. things have come and things have gone. and you ask yourself why you didnt go either, why you chose to stay, and you don't recognize your own voice because you have know idea who you are for the time being.