Changes.

There is only one thing I want to hide. One thing which I do not want to see, even to think of the possibility, that as time passes. Changes.

The past is beautiful. And I could extract as much beauty as I want from the forgotten obscured fragments. Hands, legs, so much skin and so much wrinkles growing upon the skin. And the intensity, of the details, of the construction, exerts itself along the neurons in the brain, that as space expands. Strengthens.

Then it becomes a habit. Security and comfort. Outside them everything seems threatening. The thought of even just moving to the other side of the river is intimidating. I will be having my own room, perhaps in a double suite or a triple suite. And there would be people that I don't know. That summer is back. The hours walking on the street, the ashish-brown rugs covering the floor.

I don't know what my life will be if college years were five. Another on this side of the river. Many potentials, of the possibilities I can see.

Everything ahead, on the other hand, does not attract light. The ceiling light hanging upon me, aligned perfectly in groups of tens and twenties, would not be the same. The humid smell in the dark reading rooms triggers.

But what if I change, in the sense that my mindset changes. Things I care I no longer care. Wouldn't that be scary.