On a balcony, in the Tropics

I hold the past in my mind like a photograph. It gets clearer with time while its contents fade and shift.
It bends while I get to know it.

The same warm nights now, but I can't place myself here. I don't see it. But i recognise that acid that forces its way into my night. I know that sound. Not sound itself, but the echo of sound, the way it bounces and slaps and spits. Wet.

This is where they live, the memories. Their voices, and their hands as they swung me, and the shining of the spotlights, and the way the light and the night also seemed to have a sound. Its not there now, but i still catch glimses of it if it is in my mind or my glands ( or some other sense) I cannot tell and I hear my tiny feet bouncing up the street under wet palm trees.