If only there could be an invention that bottled up a memory, like scent. And it never faded, and it never got stale. And then, when one wanted it, the bottle could be uncorked,and it would be like living the moment all over again.” - Daphne du Maurier “No man is rich enough to buy back his past.” - Oscar Wilde he dark waters of Transition Harbor were troubled and steeped in melancholy.  Moans of resignation seemed to resonate from the water and they would seep  through the walls of the bar leaving behind the dust of skeletons.  The hypnotic motion of the water had a pacifying effect on the patrons at the Harbor Bar almost as much as the booze and there was a certain peace in that. You could hear the Patsy Kline music playing as you approached the bar, but you never heard the sounds of voices.  The bar had the pungent memory of lost time and it always hit newcomers walking through the double swing door the same way. They would pause for a moment but not know why; it was almost like stepping back in time to a memory you desperately wanted to forget or one you were bitterly holding on to. The dim lights of the bar matched the dim eyes of the patrons and everyone counted days not by days, but by nights. They all had their own dark secrets but Transition Harbor had a darker one and Bud Moody was about to come face to face with it.           Bud Moody had become a regular at the Harbor Bar ever since he had become inured to the staleness of his life and the fact that there was little he could or was willing to do about it.  Every morning the alarm clock would awaken him to a marriage that had long grown cold, the years faded into the next and he found it difficult to recall a time when he didn’t feel this raw gnawing in his gut and trying to remember how it used to feel, just for a moment… ...yes, there is more to this story…
mélange
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