In a search for a minute object and then getting lost in a ferocious jungle of never-throw-aways, something bit me and I'm feeling the sting as I pillage the undergrowth of Past. Four bags and counting are lassoed around the neck and dragged out of the endless. The ground is still swampy, surroundings over-run, and with a dull knife I'm finally cutting down to the end of it-- ...I think. Why I've always felt the need to hold on to this or that, I'm not sure; perhaps so feel worthy then, knowing it be tossed now. Did I really write so much? Think and say and share so much? Every item has a scribble of my name, a little trace of me. Even the secondhands. Knee deep I wonder wearily if there ever really is an end, the rubbish I can't understand I still keep and the stories now broken I hope to mend. But time is slipping on, the afternoon escaping; as did 18 years and who knows how many rain forests now stowed away in binders or awaiting the dumps. Life is the dumps when you don't keep the goods; I'm holding on to the goods and hoping The Lady will be satisfied with her petrified jungle of boxes and open spaces.