The lake remembers everything. Words whispered just above the surface, never waiting for an answer in silent ripples. Yesterday's thought echoing through the fog, distilling, fading, layering upon layers of stillness.

Is it here that time curls back upon itself like the gentle hands of the tide? I heard somebody, some-thing, once said that the trees know more than us. Perhaps they listen to roots that traverse soil far longer than any of us can contemplate. Listen closely, they insist, in a language of rustling silk.

Yet who is the audience for this performance? By the lake's rim, with shadows at play, the only witness is the moon or the pitiful wisps of memory struggling against inertia. The lily pads float, patient, ever-present like unnamed sentinels.

Everything else is conjecture ... and what then? An open door in a locked room, a window built on the endless horizon. Stolen Echoes, Lost Parables.