reflecting that it doesn't take long

I remember the space; the magical whispering light of no-sleep excitement; the wall stripped of paper, baring layers of history; the stripped open floor, sharp dawn light creeping fingers through shutters; the shadowy soft corners; the clarity, the insight, the soft clear sight/
years later I saw his pictures and their quality reminded me of my memories of that night

of course, I told him so.
He does not remember, and I did not expect him to. They are my memories, clear and sharp.
I forget to censor myself.

It doesn't take long till they stop emailing back

Perhaps blip too is a dangerous place for me, to expose what I should keep hidden?