
A DAY
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Chapter 7. Chapter 8.
NOTE: Incidentally, I would not title a chapter of my memoirs “The Hard Years,” so as to avoid the assumption that that was when I worked in porn. People would either skip said chapter… or skip to it.

slender-stalked mushroom
stands straight & tall & still,
but not for long.
Four Quartets by T.S. Eliot
mushroom stands tall;
wasn’t there the day before,
may be gone the next.
This sounds to me like a recipe for how to turn a great moment into Hell. Nothing special survives its moment. I’m with the Buddhists on impermanence — i.e. Everything is impermanent, (and the desire for things to be what they are not is the root of all suffering.)
Ask me in ten years.
Funny thing about time, I won’t be able to see myself in ten years for ten years.
It’s a river I’ve never run before. How could I possibly know where it goes?