The dust keeps settling too nicely on the floor. And now I need to wipe them off my books. I ask myself how it is that I keep forgetting, when I keep reminding myself to bring that notebook everywhere, but it's a lie. I often forget to remind myself. The thought seldom crosses my mind. But today I will put it in my bag and have it dig a snug space in my bag.
Later, yes.
I have just committed the sin of looking back at what I have written. I shouldn't have done it. But what gives, when this space is so tiny, the ceiling, not high enough? No matter, I have enough space inside to put things in, though there isn't much headroom for memories as there is for listlessness.
Time, I steal--because I have to, because I want to. Twice, during the last eleven seconds, I typed spave, instead of space.
Let's see:
It's March and yet much rain has already fallen. What is the world coming to? There isn't much to be seen where I am. There never is, but how come I see so much?
How many sunsets more?
How many sunsets more?
