She remembers it as a rabbit trail of softly trampled grass, criss-crossing through the fields in wanton patterns of animal indecisiveness.

She remembers it as a lovers? walk, dappled with daisies and shadows and desires and sorrows.

She remembers it as a country path where the seasons worked their dark magic, turning dung into dirt, dirt into dust, dust into mud, mud into ice.

She remembers the first house, the first church, the first brothel and the first graveyard, and the narrow street that led from one to the other.

She remembers when the horses went away, chased by the angry cars.

She remembers it as a blacktop snake, sleeping under rippling drapes of burning air.

She remembers the smells, the shouts, the flashes, the vibrations, and the everlasting taste of motor oil.

She remembers it as a river, slowly sinking between walls of concrete, the grey sky above getting narrower by the day.

She remembers it as one small segment of a labyrinth, where