I may have written bout this before. About picking up crumbles of past stories, tracing the dried blood from past wounds that never turned to dust, sniffing drawn images of past emotion that never completely turn to rock. But it is more like picking up a number from shuffled bowl, unparticular. Every piece picked had become nothing but fading colors, sliding off my fingers i cant never contain as a story to tell. But i suppose it is better that way.