I’ve been reading through old journals hoping to excavate remnants of things that might latch on to remnants of other things. And I read page after page of this barely legible scribbling that is barely legible because at one time I did all of my writing on bumpy busses on bumpy roads. So it’s a real challenge to decipher it.

But then I had a realization. A realization that all of this scribbling was very easy to decipher because for years and years and years I was scribbling the same sentence over and over again. On different roads. On different busses and trains. With different writing utensils. Wearing different shirts. With different shoes. In different seasons. Using different words … all of them amounting to the same sentence.

“I wish I had more to say and more time to say it.”

The end.