Remembering good things is painful, especially if you know you can never visit them again. I sit here in a small, blank room; it could be like a prison. I read my old words... words of Summer and dreams and fruitless thoughts that sound so sweet. My eyes rove over and over these words until all meaning is lost from them and all I am is trapped in the pictures in my head. Then a voice from outside will pull me away from my words with a harsh snap, and I remember where I am and what I am. And this is painful.