Movement in Still Life

by gurdeepmattu

You listen to an old song through London lights, you hear another story, and as the happy-sad Christmas season arrives, fat Santas drinking through their pain, the memories are there waiting to be rejuvenated like an old photo album with those plastic pockets stuck together. Your parents look impossibly young and they are hesitant and gangly. Move through the moments: they are joined by a stillness that is imparted into every word you breathe out into the foggy, misty evening that gently rocks itself into the past.

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