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February 2, 2002
Piles all around me. Organized, but piles nonetheless. Mostly papers and books and magazines I want to read. Sometimes I succeed at finishing them. Other times, I pick them up and have completely lost interest in them. Or can’t remember what made me want to read it in the first place.

The newspaper yellows under prolonged sunlight exposure.

And so goes my constant battle with my mess. Piles climb, crumble, and get tossed into the garbage. A metaphor for my brain. So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past. (Stolen from F Scott Fitzgerald).