Sunday, November 6, 2016

Yesterday I almost wrote


Yesterday I almost wrote about my life as a child — not in terms of years, of long ago, but of the childhood I am living now. I thought about this for quite a while, but instead got involved with moving books around — it rained an inch yesterday, a warm, steady, windless rain — and eventually rearranged most of a tall bookcase, a pleasure I will take up again soon after I finish breakfast, which I am eating now. And so today, in effect, I am not writing about what I almost wrote about yesterday, except to say time is not a factor at all, for the simple reason that it doesn’t exist, and therefore can’t be used, or saved — unless, of course, you are, in the most common, tragic sense of the word, an adult.



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