Beg to bury the days in damp sand.

Let time fossilize on the underside, compressed by distance and space. You will unearth these memories by quadrants in fifty years and flag them for further inspection, only to find a red herring swallowed by your maker. It’s been not long enough since you’ve seen the Seven Wonders of the World, once familiar sights now made strangers. Towers and limestone, pictures that prod at the flesh of your dreams. You will grind stones and bone dust in the corners of your eyes, silt that retells the stories of ghosts in your mind. Remember nothing, fewer artifacts weigh lighter on the soul. So bury it all again into curdling soil. Sleep easy on chamomile tea until this time next year.