Sometimes where you’re going is pretty much where you’ve been.

Or the place you see is part of an illusion real enough to stop you for a moment to sort things out. A dream about dreaming. That sort of thing.

Always, though, there is that narcissistic fascination with what one sees in a reflection. “Is that me? Was I ever so young/thin/good-looking/cool?”

I wonder what I did with that sweater? I bought it in Greece, and it was the warmest thing I ever put on my body. And it itched like hell! Seriously, what’s past is past, I’ve been there before.