There is a distinct sense of déjà vu about the place. Have I been here before?
The asymmetry of the benches, the contrast of the age-ing haystacks against the tall and slender green beauties around speak of a certain conflict, a dichotomy which has held me in abeyance for long.
Is the memory important? Or is it getting entangled with many more, twisting it out of shape, giving it a different form? Do I need to review plans?
The needle in the haystack is all the more difficult to find, when I am a spirit floating high above the scene.