I flipped through the pages of my journals tonight, looking for the foreshadows. But it's as though March and everything outside of the lab didn't exist.
It leaves me wondering what's in the margins right now? Who am I not writing about now that I should be? What am I not documenting that will be evidence for the court down the road?
The way Tony that the organic food store downstairs knows me by name? The amount of cream I put in my coffee in the mornings? The book that I read two weeks ago? Someone that I passed on the street? A movie I rented? A noise I heard through the wall? An email you sent me?
It's the mundane details that were lost somewhere along the way--and suddenly they matter. I want to cling on to them, to hold them close to me. I don't want my memory of the memories to pass.
I'm running out of space to write. I want to transcribe every moment as it happens.