Will I remember that on this day, or that other day, I awoke besieged and under attack?
Does it count, all the ugly, growling, snarling demons licking at my gloriously unpainted toes, if I never write them down?
Does it mean they weren’t even ever there? Something like imprints on the paper from the pen with no ink?
I see, it’s quite simply rather easy to take Mother’s new, colorful pens and draw some scene of greater freedom than the former, greyer stories wanted to unfold.
And the sorry tinge of regret that appears to want to hold on is really only misplaced and mistrust of my own love.
Look at that! It floats on by. See that cloudy scene just passing along the screen. Why write down only such a minor, miscreant, unsorted kind of thing?