I don’t know. I really don’t. Things around me, so many things, seem insignificant yet they hold meaning, fragments of my life always present but lost among themselves. I insist on them, compel them, not because they’re junk but because they’re mine, mine to surround myself with. I carry them with me, always, books mostly. Rarely read but always there, spines staring back at me from the shelf, whispering forgotten stories. “Ohhhhhh, that’s cool!” I think, but then they slip away again. End of the day, end of many days, I’m just mundane, so mundane. Yes, I am. A glass half full, always thirsty.