by Tomorrow's Man
October 21, 2004
Found an old notebook with every inked page torn out. I remember buying it from CVS in 1994. Then, it had 100 pristine sheets; now, it has just eight.
These eight sheets are a palimpsest. In their brittle pulp are the ghosts of thousands of words, 92 pages of spent energy. I run my fingers over the frantic grooves in these parchment records, and as a song on a platter spirals into sound these textures of my thoughts from ten years ago sing.
These pages, they sound like braille, but they look like a symphony.