February 10th, 2003:

Yesterday’s sparks and flickers scramble across my memory like wind blown pages of newspapers racing back through time. I know, without need for thought, those pages are better left to plaster themselves against the chainlink fence at the end of this town and wait to be decomposed by the rain. I hold no secret desires or wishes for one-last-times. I have no hope for better days when we can try again from different places. The shapes of the names on those thickly-inked pages have changed to mismatch my edge. I now hold close that which changes with me, or perhaps I change with it. Regardless, this is all I need.