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2012-03-07 - 11:11 a.m.

Here are what some of my time-stamps look and sound like:

1. That picnic we had up on the side of Dan's mountain, when Ryan barbecued and I played music from my old Jetta's stereo, and it was all smiling and drinking cans of beer and playing Scrabble until the light was totally gone (The Beatles' Abbey Road).

2. Sixteen, trying to fall asleep in Jake's old bed, wide-eyed, headphones clamped to my ears, the music loud because everything's loud when you're a sixteen-year-old boy (Weezer's Blue Album).

3. My roommate that first year of college, the smell of bong water, his strawberry-scented dryer sheets, the New York in his voice, the dreadlocked girl who smoked too many cigarettes and who sold him drugs (A Tribe Called Quest's The Low End Theory).

4. A smart, curly-haired girl, e.e. cummings, most 20th Century American poets, my cordless phone's beeping, dying battery (Death Cab for Cutie's Transatlanticism).

5. Just last winter, crunchy gingko leaves on the sidewalks, walking to Club Charles for beers and book-talk, the December wind touseling my hair, all other parts coccooned inside a big coat (Serge Gainsbourg's Histoire De Melody Nelson).

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