He not busy being born is busy dying.
This is one of the scraps of paper I tuck neatly into the Ziplock bag full of random phone numbers and epiphany stained cocktail napkins. This is one of the scraps of paper I lug from one coast to another, from the sea to the mountains to the desert. This is one of the scraps of paper that make me wonder why I own anything at all.
I have begun the process of bucketing the items of my life into neatly cataloged boxes, bags and cases. Some may never be opened again, some in a year or so. Then there are the special boxes; the "I have to find one of those suit-jobs" is a box I dread. The, "yes, there are still funds available and I need winter travel clothes" is a box I love.
I carry on, wrapping solid pieces of wood in clean white paper. I am a strange manifestation of Santa Clause to myself.
