The conversation was important so I wrote it down, taking
copious notes in one of my green, hard backed journals. For days now I have
spent frustrated hours on fruitless searches - over shelves, through drawers
and rummaging in my mind – until I even doubt the green book. Maybe they were on
loose leaves of lined paper? Fretting
fills up neural pathways, overtakes my silent time, and now I cannot hold all
the words in my head. They are falling away like grains of sand. The one I want
begins with ‘dis’. I’m sure it does, but then I was sure about the green book.
