It's always a strange thing to think of,
to come across: the things you hold on to,
the things that get left behind.

A week or so ago you told me to think about it.
Sleep on it.

I eat a can of olives almost every day;
their saltiness is rivaled by no other food.

I root around in a box in the closet,
bits of glass clinking against one another.

I stare at the man in the seat in front of me as
the train rocks back in forth on its track.
He combs sparse stringy hair, compulsively,
with gnarled hands over his bald patch.
His skin, like an orange, each pore with on display.
I feel like I've zoomed in, each circular, shallow dip,
where a follicle may have been.
His skin shines with oil.

The last few nights or the last few months,
have been shoe string nights for me.
I'm not sure that's really an expression but I feel it.

There is so much turmoil in the world that it seems
almost silly, slight, and stupid that I put so much
weight into my own, tiny in comparison, problems.
It seems silly that I should have feelings for my own
experiences that are stronger than my empathy for
other's experiences.
But, at the same time, it feels silly that I should not
allow myself to feel for myself.
I am but human, yet.

Today : a conversation with Carlo about life.
The root of it, my point, was the idea that there are
two schools of thought when it comes to priorities:
Objects -or- Experience
I'm not sure we'll ever agree but it sometimes feels
good to hash things out. And at the same time it
sometimes feels bad. I think, this is the first time that
we've had discourse in which we left one another
feeling strangely unsettled.

I will leave you with the mental image of a messy
stack of crisp twenty dollar bills in a glove compartment,
slid between the smooth printed pages of a passport.