There were days when the sun did shine everyday. What was only weeks, maybe six, possibly eight. These were the days of real happiness. A time before this time. The innocence of youth; the crossover to growing old. But somewhere in-between there were always good days. In those, old times, the idea of storing memories was not important. No need to catalogue moments into some unreal world. Days were lived as days. Nights slept as nights. We awoke on bright mornings with no inclination to justify our daily existence. We heard the sea each morning and drew breathe. Out there was a vastness and it seemed, for a time, that we needed to fill it.