As much as I consider my life to be uneventful, I love how easy it is for me to find wonder in anything that happens to me every day of my present life, from strangers making me feel avenged to bees making me feel pardoned.

I consider every day of my life worth starting a diary for.

Yet I never do.

These present moments feel more like "yestermorrow" to me now, for I don't know at what point in time I am, but I sure as well know it isn't today.

Every time I escape my routine and get to rest home, some small bits of reality don't add up until I notice them by coincidence, things I call hiccups.

When I think about my memories...

It's very hard to know for sure what my exact age, or anything else to that matter, was at that perceived time.

Everything is but raw feelings.

I know of this lemon tree we used to have in our yard before everything was cemented. Its fruit was few and feeble, and it only grew weaker as time went on. I don't think I ever ate any of its lemons, ever.

I don't remember when it was cut down, made its uselessness official.

I don't remember if I saw it happening.

I like to think I've washed my hair with its fruit at least once.

I'd love to have one right above me after a green funeral.

Like this has ever happened.