Memories

bird shitI think back to … no. Wait. The memory comes of its own accord, a random moment from my life sprouts butterfly wings and flutters by.

            Given that I’m in my 60s, there exists the potential for great swarms of memories. Thank god they’re butterflies and not birds. There would be bird shit everywhere.

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About Gregg M. Pasterick

Old and tired...
This entry was posted in A Verbal Scrapbook, autobiography, humor, memories, travels through life, Uncategorized and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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