the trails I left for myself

Every drawer, folder, and unnamed text file is a message to someone who has not arrived yet.

Half of them are useless now. A phone number with no name. A date with no event. A single word in my own handwriting that I no longer recognize.

The other half are the only reason I can reconstruct anything at all. I am not sure which half any given note belongs to until years later, which is a poor argument for throwing things away.