Yesterday's gone.

One wakes up one dark afternoon and tastes, under one's tongue, skin one hasn't smelled for years.

Amazing the detail of recall! How faithful, in every way, how rich with sensation, from texture to toenails, breath of the desert and coming of rain.

One walks through the day seeing nothing but that old time tune; the air is filled with it. And when it fades, as it will, it is never enough.

That is why they call them yesterdays, says I, bending over to smell the gardenias which are trying to awaken.

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