The other day I saw a flat cap hanging from a tree by a pink thread. Perhaps all the finder had to hand. Nobody else walking along the street seemed to have noticed the cap. Clearly, none could have been the person who had lost it. How nice of someone to have found and re-positioned the cap in a more conspicuous place, more or less where it was first lost. I've heard stories- stories, I tell you, stories- of lost wallets left on benches with not so much as a finder's fee removed from within.
I'm in the habit of losing my mind. Or, at least, pieces of it. Last week was one such occasion. I wandered out of an izakaye and towards the direction of home. I do not recall precisely where I lost this last piece or indeed which part of my mind it was, but I do recall waking the next day with that feeling you often have before a grand trip as you survey your house from the front door, wondering what it was you forgot to pack.
Perhaps someone will stumble on a hope of mine and pin it to a tree.
Or maybe a fear of mine, trampled underfoot until the discerning eye of a tramp saw it, was added to a collection.
I am not in the slightest worried about any mislaid memories of mine, however, for these, of all parts of the mind, are most likely to warp and crinkle under repeated handling by the owner. As such, it would be unrecognisable were it valuable and therefore undesirable were I to have lost and forgotten a memory of mine. Lost, recovered and lost again, for once and all.
Dreams of course are myriad and alien and would beguile our finder from finding them. After all, just as we chance upon a dream, does it not transfrom and vaporise, shifting with the next stirring of the trees?
Lists, I can afford to cu
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