There's a room somewhere, locked fast behind an unassuming door looming grey-brown at the end of a misshapen corridor.
Inside, the relics of a time lost in time to time.
A mitt, engraved with the counterfeit signature of a ballplayer whose name once rang a bell, smelling of adolescent sweat, still dusted with sandlot crumbs, a reminder of those ground ***** that sped by too fast to field, those fly ***** just out of reach, suspended in a June twilight lost to time.
Ribbons and awards and certificates, signed by leaders of puny regimes paved and repaved over, proof of a world before this, an era of (now) perceived achievement, legitimized, glorified by Old English type printed on recyclable stock paper.
Ticket stubs from blockbuster flops, receipts of a linear plotline: Drama, comedy, a budding romance - Temporarily amusing on such a spacious screen but ultimately unfulfilling; the plot peters towards the end.
Lost in time the boy cries out with no one left to answer but the man who, as quietly as he entered it, exits the room, as always, leaving the door just ajar, enough to muffle the shrieks of a little boy chasing an invisible horizon.