Dream-starved.

Images of times gone by swirl around like disintegrating autumn leaves.  Crisp and brittle, they stand delicately defined.  Moments that once held such meaning evaporate, and devoid of emotional resonance, are shelved and indexed as nothing more than reference points.  Is that the price of living in the present?  We are a rampaging amalgamation of sensory organs who never stops to enjoy the meal.