Perhaps it is always the same for i never quite throw anything away by the time January folds into the history books and is lost forever, unless one scribbles bits and bobs hoping someone will sit down awhile and read such ramblings in the future long after i am gone to stretch amongst the moonbeams, i think they call it vanity or perhaps madness. As a small boy i had a fear of going mad talking to myself walking down the street mind skywards, pockets flat, rubbish floating through my fingers as my second brain dangling between my legs got uppity and demanded attention.
I wonder if the Last Samurai ever had such thoughts, though perhaps he did not have panties to contend with.