it wasn’t raining in new york ten years ago. i wonder if it is now.

Dropping butterscotch schnapps on the doorstep. Is this the last of my ten-year memories? We didn’t want ten years to go by so fast. They’ve gone by faster than we wanted them to.

It seems that soon it will be time to start counting in lots of twenty years. But my memory won’t be so good. Everything will become abstract. It’s already starting. My impressionist memories. Flickering modernism as I tell myself back my own stories.

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