She was right there, I could see her across the road, standing ordinarily among ordinary people, meagre strangers. I wondered ' How come some departures hurt so much, some things that hardly had a proper arrival? '. I thought , 'How come i know so much about a stranger, somebody who hardly matters, somebody who's as usual as the crowd ?'. Why do I know so much about her ? Why does that particular thought discriminate her from her immediate neighbours . Do we all have thoughts harboured, waiting for that perfect stranger to arrive when we pour it all out ? Or maybe she was just a stranger who got my heads turned Or maybe we do have a past ; who knows ; who cares? Who cares when its present worth is just as much as of a piece of memory, from a bank of moments and a wide abyss of past. Past that haunts but I still cherish. Do you do the same ?