May 29th, 2002 - 2:34 p.m.

Of memory, M., and an odd state of romance.

She woke up this afternoon with a broken heart. Dreams are such strange things. The mind stirring up memories, like miso soup. The past ought to come with some form of eraser, so that one may rub things out and leave chasms between point A and point C. But instead it haunts, banshee style, wailing and laughing all at once.

�You are underachieving in historic measures right now,� M. claims. Which really only makes me vastly content. M. also called me a �charming snob�. Which only makes me grin.

�Next time, I promise we will be perfect.� Next time, we will sit under the cherry blossoms in the spring time, picturesquely. I will take your hand in mine. We will fade into the background. No one will dare disturb. And we will linger. Never out of time. We cannot lose. I promise.

N.

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