I wish I was still there. listening to my walkman, in the carpet, my old cassette tape with FYP. which I probably moved back manually with my pencil, during the last class period. to save on batteries. and the sound of garage punk, echoing it to me. give the answer to what drives me. and the marathon to see as many shows as possible. collecting tickets and flyers as if they contained a part of the past evening. and in the trash, move my 90 pounds. like I was 6 feet tall and built very square. carelessness, the naive conviction that nothing can happen to you. think nothing. completely forget the end of the evening. foggy. smoking so much pot, no longer having money to eat, it never bothered me. Being so high all the time and loving it. rub my hands on the tree to hide the smell of smoke. but who did I think I was deceiving? opening a bottle of wine at 7 a.m., or a quick trip where you forget to come home. feel that the world is in front of you. the certainty of being unique. losing the notion of time, which in any case has more value than what we gave it. no pressure, no schedule, just let yourself go through it. the day, the week, the time, never measured. it is with a sound of nostalgia that the door opens onto the memories of a lost era, now far away but still perceptible. a probable idealization of the past, so the pleasant sounds bounce back to the present and combine with this moment, this very moment when we stop.

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