Somewhere in the realm of the quiet and nostalgic, I swim through memories of forgotten days. They always seem like other lives. Lost lives, perhaps. Lives that exist only in memory while I toil in the present. Days in the diagonal city of silver. Or cities of blue, of pink, of gold. Sometimes, I reach in my bag and pull out hostel receipts, museum entries, train tickets or bus fares from far-away lands. Madras to Villivakkam, 5 rupees only. Manila Bay dorm, 350 pesos. 2 ringgit to enter Ft. Cornwalis in Penang. As if I stowed these tickets in the deep recess of memory's pockets, only to pull them out for a nostalgia's warm embrace.