Rip Van Winkle was a story that I never understood. How could a man that slept for forty years in a forest, aging all the while, just waltz back into town and have such and unremarkable story? Imagine having an absolutely perfect memory of the incidents, the setting and the culture of a time before this. I've always loved history, so I guess I'm just gushing out of a personal fetish, but if I was to lock myself away for years and come out of it, I would like to think that someone would really appreciate my particular knowledge.
Walking into the garden of anachronisms, the glorified public junkyard, I grabbed all the watches I could find. They smelled of rust and oil and each piece was warm from baking beneath the summer sun. In every item lived a story, and my hobby was to bring the story to life. This is my story.