The battle rages as the weeds and time have a silent race along the cracks in the sidewalk. The frowns of toothless glass home-fronts cast sneering shadows. Trees are broken, grass is gone. Paint flakes and chips for the sun as it rolls daily through the sky. This place is not a sad place it is a worn place. All color has queued to brown like the haze against the hills. The streets breath the dust as it swirls. This from where time has taken me. The sound of childhood laughter and running feet echo to me. Everything is scaled to fit my memory but not my size. It is all there, for only me to see. It's where I first remember, where I had most of my firsts. I can still feel it. This place is not a sad place it is my place.