Italy on the banana river.

I've been racking up a body count these last few years;
windshields, ex-girlfriends, bathroom doors, "best friends", my god damn about my home town, etc etc.

Along with all of these (mostly)tangible things, a great many little details have begun to accumulate in the back of my mind.

The impossibly deep caverns of my mind.

All the details that separate the "truth" of what happened from the proverbial

"conjecture."

Who kissed who first, why I even had cocaine to begin with, who actually had the car keys. The parts of the night that allow for narrow escapes in arguments with friends and lovers. The damning proof that I was up to no-good. I hide it, often times, with no reason whatsoever.

Burying the treasure for others to find.

Leaving the house open for embellishment, social slanderers and their poorly dressed backbiting friends.

I remember riding with a beautiful young woman along a perfect stretch of road that runs parallel with one of the most resplendent rivers in town. She wanted to hear her favorite song again and again. All I can remember short of those small fragments is that all I wanted in the world was to kiss that girl. All the rest of the information is gone. Why we were in a car alone driving around listening to that song, I haven't the foggiest.

Because to me, that's the most important part, that I was in the car with her.

Not the part that I may have been dating someone else or that I may not have been. Even at the instance the details are lost on me because in those far expanses of emptiness between my ears I hear one thing.

It won't matter tomorrow.