Memory Is Like Fiction; Or Else It's

Time Flows In Strange Ways On Sundays, And Sights Become Mysteriously Distorted.

Irrepressible Curiosity Vied With An Instinctive Fear.

Sometimes I Find It Too Hot To Run, And Sometimes Too Cold. Or Too Cloudy. But I Still Go Running. I Know That If I Didn't Go Running, I Wouldn't Go The Next Day Either. It's Not In Human Nature To Take Unnecessary Burdens Upon Oneself, So One's Body Soon Becomes Disaccustomed. It Mustn't Do That. It's The Same With Writing. I Write Every Day So That My Mind Doesn't Become Disaccustomed.

All Imperfections Are Forced Upon The Imperfect, So The 'perfect' Can Live Content And Oblivious.

I Think Of Myself As More The Non-turn-on Type. So When I Do Get Turned On, I Don’t Trust It, I Have To Investigate The Source.