There used to be some sort of magic whenever I visited and never would I expect that the feeling would wear off. Now as an adult (hardly.)  I ponder, at what point do our imaginations stop overflowing? In our years when do we quit producing wonderful fiction into our everyday realities? As twenty-four withers by I wish I could still time, just momentarily so my unique soul can capture whats left. Every time I’m here I pretend like its the last time just in case, I try to appreciate all of it, slowly, because someday it will be the last time.