If the sweet taste of the vitalizing drink called nostalgia didn't cling to my throat like a crust every second of my inconvenient existence, I wouldn't remember everything I am, everything I could have been, everything I wasn't. I'm like a drug addict whose drug is time, after all, I'm addicted to almosts. Each click of regret is like the trigger of a gun I've grown accustomed to being shot with, I don't even need a bulletproof vest anymore, but I hope there's no shortage of gunpowder when I truly miss this pain that is remembering. May time be kind to a reckless wanderer like me. —Mv