I spent much of the night looking through dusty old pages that now smell like the used book shops I used to haunt. I'm trying to summon the memory of the way that paper smelled when I wrote on it. I can't. More disturbing, I have come across references to things I cannot remember at all. I wrote that one night we went to a place called Pergolas. I can't remember a single thing about it. I think that it must have been a restaurant, but where it was or what it was like has left no trace in my mind. At the time I wrote these notes, I must have thought that they were sufficient to remind me of whatever I might one day wish to recall, but I was wrong. Even when they succeed, they do so minimally. So much detail is lacking that I grasp only the outlines of what I once thought worth preserving in words. It is both tantalizing and disappointing.
Worse yet, I have exposed myself to some truly appalling verse which I wrote before I came to the belated realization that I am no poet. I tried not reading it, but it was like one of those horrible scenes of disaster which rivet one's attention so effectively that it becomes impossible to look away, no matter how great the desire to do so. Well, maybe it isn't quite that bad. But, though it pains me to admit it, it is only slightly less odious than the work of Jewel. I think I'll shower again before bed. I need it.
