When I was a child, there was not a cloud in the sky.

I remember all the vacations and my parents; my only problem was my sweaty back sticking to the folding chair on the beach. I seem to have spent my eternity dreaming, absorbing the beach, and dreaming of roaming through far and unexplored lands.

I remember how I learned, impromptu and extremely premature, to ride the bike with no hands-the bottom of the hill where I landed, and the ride in the ambulance.

The pleasure I had joshing my grandmother who always enchanted us with her culinary experiments, aesthetically offensive, but once you closed your eyes everything tasted fine.

Fighting with my dad and our afterwards bruised egos, finalizing outlandish plans under a sturdy and peculiar stream of consciousness - my connection with books that kept me in the same place for hours.

Where are those days? Time is possibly an elastic band snapping back and forth.

Now I stare at my childhood house and it seems so small. I wonder where the giant apple tree is. We always used the bad apples as weapons.

Where are the old times?

I want to find the cryogenic master and ask for the keys to unlock the time he froze.