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When I was born, I was given a photo album, and told to fill it with my memories.

By the end of my first week, I had so many, I needed another scrapbook. And another. And another. As the years went by, the collection grew astronomically - thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions of books packed to bursting on the library shelves inside my head.

My fondest times, my special memories, were on put at the front entrance on display for all to see so they could be enjoyed and admired.

What a fool I was.

Some time ago, I cannot remember how long, there was a fire. A terrible, raging fire that came like a storm and left more damage than can ever be told as it whipped through the stacks, ravaged the aisles and destroyed everything it touched and more.

And now, all that are left are a few pages with blackened borders. The rest is ash, just funeral dust on the wind...