Sometimes... my mind drifts, carried softly into the haze of a distant memory. But I am not a child cradled at my mother’s breast. I am adrift—suspended in glass— while silent men gaze upon me with wonder. If these are not my memories... then whose dreams and memories am I living? https://open.spotify.com/track/5mtn7y4mfApt5gM02PRWVz?si=c3227479984343f1