'i-catcher-console Webmonitor darkkaura @ 2007-10-08T20: 20:00

nights laughing at the ceiling. Those times. Half of 135. The race to the bus. Maps and tourist excursions. Sometimes they are hugging on the station under the clock, of course. Afternoon slush and books. Small. Other times they are the square and benches, songs and skates. Also sometimes it's coffee and words.

remain those times is the old house, the hall towards the end was a ninety-degree turn at the bottom of my room, and left that of my parents. The calendar with the seasons painted on wood, autumn, winter, spring, summer. April, July and October. And my parents' room, behind the door, the desktop black and white, not particularly pretty, but always full of stuff. I, as a child, opening lI drawers, checking the old letters that Mom still holds, the papers with poems, a puppet worn and boxes, especially boxes, spring cleaning boxes, like mine, the boxes with matches inside, headbands, with pins, with patchwork, with newspaper clippings. Wooden boxes, cartons, tins of biscuits. Storage boxes for what to keep and what not. Sometimes we find back to the past by reopening the same cabinet. Sometimes back. Sometimes amaze me. Sometimes scared. Sometimes vertigo. Sometimes being brave. Sometimes October.

A recent times.