It starts like a slow leak in the roof,  
a drop here and there, a stain on the ceiling,  
but after a while the whole room is damp.  
The world, once so sharp, begins to soften-  
the faces blur, and the names slip away like  
sand through a sieve, and even the clock  
on the wall seems unsure of itself.  
  
The future, of course, keeps going,  
marching on like an indifferent parade,  
while the past grows quieter, like a radio  
that you never quite manage to turn off.  
You might remember something-
or not-and the line between now and then  
becomes a faint smudge on the horizon.  
  
And then, just as you think you've lost  
your grip on everything, the circle gathers  
and weeps, not knowing whether it is for you  
or for themselves,  
for the person you were or the person  
who is still sitting there, somewhere,  
but has left the room.