I dream of lost things. The old and forgotten that live in the backs of wardrobe, hidden behind tables and swept under beds. The memories pile up on shelves and between books and on countertops. They overflow at the seams, peeking out from their hiding spots and reminding me of days long gone and people all but forgotten. I am reminded of days when I laughed until I cried and of days when I cried until I laughed, of firsts and lasts, of goodbyes and hellos. Nostalgia runs thick like blood through my house, creeping its way through every crack and crevice, making its home in the walls and under the floorboards. A photo here, an album there, an old pendent, a key, a letter. I am reminded of people whose faces are faded and blurry but who’s pictures are clear and bright and smiling, of days that run into one another and of nights so great I can’t remember them. My house is built from fractured memories and splintered stories that sulk around darkened corner and dance over my pillow at night, and as I lay down to sleep, lost things settle down and build homes in my mind.