been spending time throwing parties, punches, throwing away needless memories throwing fits of misanthropic festivities;
somewhere in all of this, i stare out my window seeing only trees.
Leavves falling.
Falling leaves.
Everything (re: everyone) leaves.
The leaves donot fall in a picaresque singularity; instead they fall in clumps, showing me that one needs to be a part of something in order to be remembered.
Through the wall i hear child's laughter. Either the television is on and what i hear is a recording, or the little girl next door is excited for dad to have come home. And all the while i can't stop thinking about the marmalade i never bought at the little shop round the corner from yours.
I am no closer to reliving yesterday than I am to forgetting tomorrow.
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