« The past scampers like an alley cat through the present, leaving the paw prints of memories scattered helter-skelter — here ink is smeared on a page, there lies an old photograph with a chewed corner, elsewhere still, a nest has been made of old newspapers, headlines running one into the other to make strange declarations. There is no order to what we recall, the wheels of time follows no straight line as it turns in our heads. In the dark attics of our minds, all times mingle, sometimes literally. » Charles de Lint.