The stickiness of the past can be especially challenging when it is felled with so much happiness and hope that are missing from the present and the future. Hope is the opiate of those who have not gone through much significant loss. Too many silly love songs and not enough ballads about pivot tables and bridges and broccoli. We change our passion in subtle shifts of time and sand bags. Some old passions are not worth the energy required to sustain them. Many a past love now feels like a lake house that brought joy for a few summers but has long since been shuttered and put on the market. A broker to two might negotiate a new investment of energy pulling out an illustrated brochure of where those free hours might be vested and compounded. My thoughts want to travel to the time bank, its vaults filled with platinum canisters filled with hours, days, life times of unused, unexpired moments. My quest to take my mallet to fulfill my quest to locate the shattering of time is rapidly consuming the drifting sands of my denied desires. Time, offered in an organza canteen, on a desert of wasted miliseconds
