One

raga morning

 

I have borrowed shamelessly from you. Will I ever be able to tell you how I came to borrow so shamelessly from you? Will it matter? I remember my history classes during the last year of high-school before I escaped that school to another one and substituted history with geography, loved Macbeth and all his madness, and wondered what class I should fail; the choice was between Chemistry and Physics. I do not think that it matters much what I think of my abilities and capabilities. It matters that I keep forgetting, and I have forgotten for most of this life where it is that I came from. The truth is that I have forgotten who you are. If I write, it is to remember.

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