Somewhere in that pile of memories mouldy with nostalgia, is a little core of something real.
A tiny beating heart that lies underneath all that is old, all that is dead.
And when the mess is cleared away, you can hold it in your hand and see it thumping against your palm; and you take it away in your pocket and put it in an old carved box, to bring out on lonely Sunday mornings when you take stock of all that you've done.

At least, that's what I'd like to believe.