Through the open gate the ghosts come riding in. It could be catching sight of something in the corner of your eye, or perhaps it's a scent on the breeze (they say smell is most closely linked to memory) more often than not though I find it's a song, a sound, a riff or bassline that conjures the past. A hazy image, the impression of a moment. So fragile and tentative; then the present comes rushing in and it to is vulnerable, beautiful, worthwhile. Too much reminscence has you missing the now, yet too little has you losing the then.