I am listening to a sincere but so-so live Brazilian band as the smell of pot smoke blows through the room. Pot sometimes smells like polecat to me. Other times it smells like cow shit.
I wandered into some pages I filled 13 years ago with hand-written scrawl 13 and I remembered the days that are forgotten for having not been documented. Mundane but interesting (to me) reflections on my forgettable days, lost to the whirlpool of time.
I read scrawl from my 13 and 23 years ago and I see the same vulnerable child of a mind today — thrashing like a bald baby whose lifetime personality is revealed in his first moments of life — in the e-mails I sent yesterday.
