In the attic, boxes full of memories, trinkets of my state of mind, old letters, toys, even rocks. Keys whose purpose I cannot remember, a plastic thermometer in the shape of a fish skeleton, a dried out cactus branch. One day I'll take an inventory and write a little story about each object; it could probably take up an entire book. Hmmm. That might actually be an interesting idea for a short story collection. It's probably been done. Wish I had more time to read. At least I'm making a little time to write, for what that is worth. And do people realize just how tenuous reality is?