Five-minute free write
I remimnd myself of the late hour and I stand in the desert once again, the highway stretched out as far as I see. I am with nobody but my own thoughts personified in the shape of a bag of potatoes. Sit down, go through the halls of your elementary school with Bob Marley music playing from here to there. There are cubicles and I don’t remember how I could forget this part of my experience growing up, The gym makes me want to listen tio Roxy Music, but the city makes me seek silence. Your hands are fine and I am thinking of that same body part over and over. What is it with hands? Feel like I fell down. The battery is weakening, and the songs no longer are familiar. I love it. I want the ostinato. I want the repeated vamp of an electric piano matched with a bass and insistantly muted drumming. Hold on, we are going far away. This is not real, but memory distorts and we have no way of truly capturing something s solely from subjective memory. This is what I love about it. There is just too much of yourself when you do this, and and it is impossible to seperate that aspect from the memory. Give me subjective flashback anyday.