I paste things into my notebooks. Tonight, a note from Dan Catt, a photo of the Bee Pioneer, a car crash, a new watch, the cover of a book. When the notebooks are filled, they go in a storage box.
Tonight, I think about my daughter finding these boxes when I’m gone and she has to clear the house. All my scribbles, notes to self, half-ideas, frustrations and speculations and tabulations, and snapshots of the days after she moved away, more than ten years ago as I write this.
At some point, I suppose we all start imagining the future in terms of the past.