The last I remember, I saw them come right in, slowly, one after another. Some were polite, greeted me in the normal fashion, “Hello, Madam, how are you today?” they said, as they peered around nosily. Others pushed hard from behind, hurrying the laggards on, couldn’t tell if they were eager to arrive or desperate to leave. Nonetheless they made a jumbled mess. The ones in front turned right around and glared at their impatience, “Leave be” they said, “Leave be. We got here first and there’s a lot to see, so wait your turn.”
And I just wondered, “Dear me, dear me, will they ever leave?” Is the mind a mausoleum with waxed thoughts to visit on a dreary Sunday afternoon? Embalmed in a past, tinted with years of overuse, old weary thoughts, some so old they can hardly stand, decrepit and waiting now, waiting only for the release of death, is that my mind?