Saturday, February 15, 2014

The Vagaries of Memory

"Oh man, that's great," I laugh, trudging through the wet muck aftermath of melting ice and slush. "That's my four each day. I have to write that down as soon as I get to work."

But the rhythms of the everyday take over, gliding me through work and commute and home and TV, and by the time I'm sitting down at night, ready to write, there's nothing left but the memory of something I ought to have written: a string tied around a finger, reminding me to do something, but just what I can't recall.

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