'the crushing power of a tiny momento is something that I've always scorned, yet like stockholm syndrome my life is adorned with them. hung up around this room covered in lint and sweat-stains in places that I'll never look or touch again. waves upon waves of memorabilia, worthless if not for the weight of it on either side of my conscience from decades past, buried in layers like a trifle until a pile topples, by accident, opening up the wet and the raw like it was only yesterday. that weight I told you about, it's what stops me from picking up and moving things, stacking them neatly and out of sight. It had its place and time and I've kept it there, I've kept it all where it fell when I got home. I can safely depart when I spend a day ripping bandages off, putting the dustiest memories away in a box and trying so hard to forget where I put it. Then when I move I can just throw the box away without even thinking about it.

for now, I just pace back and forth, gingerly stepping over all of these things -- these little pieces of who I was acting as a rickety foundation for who I am, held together by hope and belief rather than substance -- feeling the stretched, flimsy fibres tying my body quiver with each step.

it all started with a stone elephant in a plastic dimebag.
I hate remembering feelings and faces, but never knowing names.'