I collect these images, these fragments of other lives, other people, other thoughts, and gather them together; I line them up and roll my eyes across their stories over and over; in the morning, before I sleep, between meals, while my husband snores. These little fragments nothing more than breadcrumbs through my life. Pieces of a life I'd never been prepared to live, but one I never stopped searching for. Vicariously, I live through them. My little collection of lifetimes I've never survived, of troubles and sadnesses that fill my bones like ghosts seeking their home shores. I am the lighthouse for memories never made to find a quiet resting place; the anchor dropped into the deep, aphotic sea to keep the wanderer from drifting too far off his own map, that drags the whole ship beneath the unforgiving waves.