All we have left is ruined splendor. All that pick tools and whisk broom uncover - lost inscriptions, forgotten endearments, fragments of a manuscript we now recognize as a letter to one who broke our heart in the nineteen eighties. All that dust and time have effaced - ancient sorrows we thought we had buried, never to be revisited, take on new form and body forth as you my friend whom I thought I had put away. Sifting like scholars through the detritus - a tarnished silver ring, a broken tie clasp.