reading mary oliver’s dream work
again. its just poetry so its different everytime.
opening old boxes this week i came across remnants of an old life, apparently mine. things i havent seen in a couple years or so, nothing so critical but the sort of stuff i keep: the t-shirt tag from running the los angeles marathon (#2449), an old metro card, postcards, photobooth pictures (the real kind), chinese fortunes that i agreed with, ticket stubs, handwritten notes. little evidences.
weird. really weird, time and all.