I had written down some things I wanted to talk about the next time we met. I had written them on a piece of paper, the kind you get from one of those glue-bound, square scratch pads. But not the kind that are sticky underneath, like post-its. Just simple paper. Three inches by three inches. And maybe three inches high, at least to start off. You know the kind of pad I'm talking about. They usually have some sort of corporate logo on them. But you don't know whose it is. Because you've forgotten how you've come into possession of the pad in the first place. Or why.

And none of this actually matters, anyway.

When I asked the girl at the counter for something to write on, she looked all around her, totally ignoring one of those pads I'm talking about, which was right there in front of her. I had to point at it. Then she made a face like Of course! and tore off the top piece from the pad and gave it to me. Funny how we overlook these ubiquitous pads, especially when we're looking for that one thing that can do exactly what they do so perfectly: provide a temporary blank slate to make possible the quick unleashing of an idea or the jotting of a bit of information.

And so I took my pen and I scribbled on the piece of paper three things as I climbed the stairs. So I wouldn't forget the feeling, and so I could describe them in a way that might make sense. So I could explain how and why. And that sometimes this shit scares me. I even numbered them...1, 2, 3.

But I lost the paper. And I've forgotten the three things. Like most of the stuff I care deeply about. Or couldn't give a shit about.

"And isn't that funny?" I say. "I can't tell the difference anymore."

"Maybe there is no difference," says Moses. "Why don't you tell her that."

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