It is somewhat alarming how a number, a date can mean so much. I would like to chant after Cecila Talis, but stories don't actually resume. It is at once silly and logical to wrap yourself in a blanket of coax, but it all ends up like a supernova on rebound.

I dislike the idea of certain events, emotions and recollections overcoming and infiltrating you surreptitiously, eventually becoming an intergral part of yourself. Something's got to give, and you most likely traded a part of yourself, to become a different person.

You know it when you go to bed in the night, knowing that the morning would greet you with the exact same considerations and meditations that at long last drew you into slumber. Those parasitic leechlike brainjuice sucking monster of thoughts that your mind hosts, that you wish to expel and purge for their unwarranted omnipresence, that will persist in their own pertinacious and tenacious ways.