Repressed memories resurface, randomly. Radio tracks reverse the hands. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. A constant rewinding and replaying of tapes force me into recollecting my footsteps.  A five year-old is riding her tricycle down and up the patio. A sweet taste of strawberry milk fills my mouth. I contemplate the idea of the soul saying its goodbyes. The smell of lipstick lingers strangely.