almost missed, again, but returned home, returned to familiar haunts, with familiar things, but through unfamiliar lenses, where age and time have colored and shaped and distorted and sharpened and enhanced and glaussian blurred the edges that were found, and old things are new, and new things are old, and it's the little things, always the little things. but what's with the fear, with the odd anxiousness of seeing someone i know, but not a worry, anonymity remains, and i continue to walk unnoticed.