There are memories in my scrapbook. Of places and people I once knew. There are pictures of a dog I once had, and exotic fish from a tropical island which I visited with someone special.

They are all right there on the pages as if they had never changed at all. Time is frozen in my scrapbook.

There are thoughts in my scrapbook. Some of the most beautiful thoughts I ever had are there. Thoughts I shared with strangers, thoughts my best friends shared with me, and thoughts I only ever shared with one particular person.

I will probably never think anything to compare with those thoughts again, but they are all there in my scrapbook.

After the last page in my scrapbook there are about two unrecorded months and then there is my diary.

My diary is my life after the scrapbook. In my diary, time crawls at a snail’s pace.

It has entries like:

What will I need to sleep?

–          A large t-shirt. Very big and so worn and soft that the fabric might rip at any time.

–          Boxer shorts, about half a size too big.

–          Sleepytime-socks. Thick, warm, fuzzy.

–          Eiderdown big enough for two.

–          King-size bed, so that I can toss and turn without falling out. Or at least without falling out of bed before half the night is through.

Do I have these things? Yes. Goodnight.

And details like which hand soap I use and where I shop (it is always the same store), and how often (only when I absolutely have to) and long ramblings about my scrapbook and how my diary is compared to it.