I have been writing in a journal on an almost-daily basis since I was 17 years old. This is a record of me going through each entry from the beginning, and commenting on the me from fifteen years ago.

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If I were on top of the world, I’d let it cry on my shoulder for a time. And if life stopped tomorrow, I’d thank it for the ride. Time could eat lunch with me, when reality reared it’s visage.

I now long to be asked that cheesy question, “If you could have lunch with anyone in history, who would it be?” Just so I can reply, “time.”