I remember an old conversation with a good friend, not so many months ago. I was going through a rough time at work, and there were three of us on the roof, and I was getting it off my chest.

"You know, most times I come home and I can't even remember what I've spent my day doing." She's always been so much older than me, where it counts. She said:

"That's what you call growing -"

"Hmm?"

"You know what, never mind." I shrugged, a little smug.

I remember this old conversation and I stretch out my arms. I yawn a little bit. Across from me I watch islands like hills like ghosts drift by in chiaroscuro layers. I've had three days to think about a lot of things.

And every day I know exactly what I did.



(-on the Virtues of Being Normal)