The stream I go a-fishing in.

How often it is that we speak with ghosts. Quarreling over regrets and, to overcome them, inventing past conversations so that we might replace the words that spurred regret's feet to dig into our present thoughts. Remembering a past happiness so that it will spread a smile across our faces again. We interact with those soft figures of our memory, and with a clasp of much closer import than the opaque faces before us as if they are blotting out the glow we wish to cast upon the past. But those ghosts are the ones that brought us here, after all. They are the ones that gave all of our parts their shape. Perhaps we owe it to them to search them out through the mists, to correct or to relive. Perhaps we do not want to admit its impossibility.