Dreams are strange things, visiting with the least provocation, an image, a picture, a photograph, still frame, life captured, still life, dead life, a picture, enough to jar that which i had believed was behind me. a year. hadn't seen in a year. nothing. no pictures, no contact, and i looking for pictures of myself run across her. kind of amazing that way, i think things are better now, put things behind me, moving on, moving forward, and all i do is open that little black book, okay it's brown, the postcard that i should have gotten sooner, would have changed my life to now if i had gotten it sooner, what is the answer was yes? what if? very good question. i would have answered please, i would have said slap me for being such an asshole and let's try something real, not the bullshit i came up with, but that was years ago, years, and i ask for nothing more than that. maybe it's time to return to roots, to whatever i still carry inside, stop looking out, hold it within and shoulder it, whatever it may be, but at least i have it. it's there, in my heart, on my back, i ask for nothing else but that and more, spent so many days, so many nights, so much time, return to that? that time of year, relapses, returns, re turn ret urn