audio A spray of flashbacks reloads the Chekhov’s gun of my mind’s eye, -the fifth chamber of the heart- whose trigger stirs my head like a mug of hot cocoa;` When the match of chance remembrance lights up your nostrils, you become a bloodhound, hunting down the usual suspects on branching thought trails you'd unknowingly marked; including your Grandpa’s black walnut rocking chair, beside your friend's crocheted green and grey beanie and your nephew's torn touch and feel baby animal book Hindsight often feels like a séance as intense as incense, wherein we commune with vanished moments soaking in the steam of yearnings via a stream of association.