In the ordinary jumble of my literary drawer, I sometimes find texts I wrote ten, fifteen, or even more years ago. And many of them seem to me written by a stranger: I simply do not recognize myself in them. There was a person who wrote them, and it was I. I experienced them, but it was in another life, from which I just woke up, as if from someone else’s dream.
so you see lebron went back to cleveland?!
garage operator with whom i exchange a hello every morning, shouting to one of his buddies across the street just after i passed him today.
at first, i jumped in thinking this was directed at me and turned back to respond. it did not take long to realize, however, that if he’s going on appearance and the content of our conversations alone, he has no reason to assume this means anything to me. still cause to smile for a few extra blocks. moving to new cities. what a weird thing.
today is definitely a day for strawberries. happy father’s day, whatever it may mean to you.