Brought the old bag home. They offered me letters from the old days, subtly yet ever so piercingly reminding me of things I thought I’d forgotten. There is no fondness in these relics. Even the grey river that watches as I review what had been; its waves and ripples bringing back the pain of what was once a dream. Here, in the woods of despair, I thought I’d finally escape, but the old bag is sitting on my kitchen table, a deceiving chain to the old life. And I never realized even old pages could still make deep paper cuts.