skez gja Hilarious that after all this time: it is you. Of everyone that is possible: it is you. All the water under the bridge: it is you. Do you remember the conversation sitting on the stairs of the closed canteen that day? Of course you don’t. And why should you. No reason. If I told you that moment was seminal for me would you understand? Probably not; and that is OK too. I am not, cannot be, upset or offended. If pressed maybe I would even say I am a little relieved. You see - my memory is clear. It always has been and always will be. It is a curse and a privilege. I could tell you what temperature it was that day. I could track the prevailing breeze to the nearest compass point.. I could tell you what I had for lunch. And I know what you had too. But that moment, those moments, are gone. And I am not sad. I am happier that they are now my memories now. They are undisturbed by he or she or everyone but me. They get dusted off when I say. They get filed under the letter I want. They get shared when I c(d)are. Did I tell you I was a control freak? I appreciate your courage. Even if I laugh at it; I do. And I know that you know that. Remember Coleridge: On a bleak rock, midway the Aonian mount, There stands a lone and melancholy tree, Whose agéd branches to the midnight blast Make solemn music: pluck its darkest bough, Ere yet the unwholesome night-dew be exhaled, And weeping wreath it round thy Poet’s tomb. Then in the outskirts, where pollutions grow, Pick the rank henbane and the dusky flowers Of night-shade, or its red and tempting fruit, These with stopped nostril and glove-guarded hand Knit in nice intertexture, so to twine, The illustrious brow of Scotch Nobility! 101018 what's it to you? who go blather from