Through silent dreams the heart taps on wood, beating like a metronome. Nowadays, the pace is about 80 beats per minute. I don't know if this is faster than average, but it bothers me not. Life still flows so slowly - and as far as I've come, the earliest memories are still paced slowly, a moment that lasts forever and has already faded to a dim recollection.
I feel like it could be August already, but perhaps it is June or July; I only know it is warm, so it must be summer. In my youthful days, I cared naught for June-July-August. They were foreign words that sounded strange and had no meaning. I think it was summer, but it could have been winter; in Florida, the seasons blur in their heat. I can make out no more outlines...
I'm outside, selling tacos (moist dirt held between leaves). It's my original version of the mud pie, and I'm selling them like a real taco vendor, shouting and singing and walking up and down the sidewalks behind our apartment complex.
An old man with gentle eyes and white hair meets me, gives me a dollar, and takes the taco from my hand. The sun is beating down upon the two of us with unrelenting rays, and yet we're smiling. We're smiling because of the daydream we shared for that one moment... a daydream that children live in and that older people seldom choose to join.