Songs aren’t time travel. It seemed like the great experiment was over. He sat alone in his room, with the ringings of the last chords playing against the furniture and the bowls. There was a glimpse of a mother who wasn’t his, or was, but was gone now, and perhaps only existed not in language but in rocking, in cradles, in the womb, in hands held walking the street or while laying in the back of a slowing car pulling into the house after a night in the city. Songs and images do not bring back moments but memories. And it was evident now after the year spent alone, trying to bring them back. Trying to fall asleep while playing, or laying back in his bed, on his head, with a slight tickle in his ear, and singing about the dinosaurs and large trees at the museums, the coin funnels which he and his father stood by and watched the coins roll down, pouring into the center hole, and falling. No tone to bring back the best. Reverbation to echo a thought but not to bring it back. Songs are not time travel. There was no point now to look back. There was nothing from there he could grab. The mother and the father he knew now, the brother, the dog and the house, were only memorabilias, things he had been lucky enough to grab from a sweet dream. Work and relationships and a clean home and cooking. Now he would work, look forward, forget about the guitar and the tones that seemed to shimmer something in his head that promised time but only brought back pain and loss. It was time to look forward and listen. Perhaps the present would find him again. Perhaps a moment would find him then again, unexpected, and then for a moment, he would find the music. And he would never look back. For now he knew.