Yesterday was happy-happy-clean-out-my-closet day. And in the midst of boxes of letters and workshopped stories and scrap after random scrap of paper, I found these tiny slices of wisdom scribbled on the back of an empty envelope in a clean navy ink:

"After a year away, with so many extreme moments, the experiences begin to extinguish one another, and you start to feel like the grotesque consumer of a life you are not really a part of anymore."   Mark Mordue

"I get all confused and hung up running from one falling star to another 'till I drop. I had nothing to offer people but my own confusion."   Jack Kerouac

"She later told him, 'You have to earn mystery. It's only lovers who get there.' He was excluded. It was the central tragedy of his life."

"I want to accept who I am and find a place in the world, from an initial in wood to a footprint in ice and some words on a page."

I remember when I wrote them. The sheer blackness of airport glass. Lost in the timeless void of a missed connection. So many months ago that the months have somehow vaporized into years. And that little corner seems like my truest, darkest past.

But now that I'm here in this present, things are much, much better.