There in the jars on the shelves amongst the specimens rests things; things that are more than not not kept but instead even more forgot and never more than least remembered and that till the light of a setting scene lays them out in pink and auburn hues in alien silhouettes dancing to music you cannot hear but still your heart knows and finds sympathetic beat. In your hand now lays the room ruddy temperature glass jar, your thumb wiping back the years to peer inside, inward through hazy fluid to what lays innermost and indiscernible. It jostles and tries to find a new equilibrium amongst the halting steps of this, your renewed waltz, that it from slumber it finds itself awoken to. One. Two. Three. Four. Onetwothree. One two three four? Who awoke whom? And who leads whom? And who has been shelved and put away to become in some later days, days that now converge today, foreign object to a landscape barren except for the endless shelves of jars?