Somewhat like the ground around my house covered by fallen leaves, I am blanketed by flawed pages from times past. Each leaf is a beautiful object and lively memory that others confuse with debris.
Pity the soul who cannot recall and re-examine, laugh at and draw lessons from, experiences of his prime. The young cannot fathom how much the twenty-three-year-old inhabits the body of the sixty-three-year-old. The near-elderly in their sixties can hardly conceive of the young girl yet dancing in the head of the octogenarian.
Blurry pictures are true pictures of life in midair.