This page contains unsorted fragments of recollection to be assembled at a later date. Dates are correct only to the decade and sometimes to the year.

Details will change as recollections are examined. Memory can be both accurate and fluid. There is nobody, too, to ask about most issues.

610601 Wednesday — Bird that isn't right

610601. Bird that isn't right.

Age 2 or 3.

Bird on the sidewalk. Baby bird. No feathers. It isn't a finished bird. It isn't moving. It's staring, instead. The bird isn't right.

620601 Thursday — Place that doesn't exist

620601. Place that doesn't exist.

Age 3 or 4.

A house has a small brick structure attached to it at ground level. Fire must have been involved, at some point, but the structure isn't an oven. It's more like an open room. Perhaps 4 feet by 4 feet in size.

The bricks on the inside are black. Not a black that is visible. Nothing can be seen.

It isn't clear that anything exists in this space. It doesn't seem to be a place. It's a place that perhaps not only doesn't contain things but might not exist itself.

I step back from this space.

620602 Friday — Plant that isn't right

620602. Plant that isn't right.

Age 4.

It's late. A different mode of the universe. I'm standing in the living room.

Nobody is there. It's so quiet.

There is a tall plant on its stand, where it's supposed to be. But its leaves and things are gone. No, they're scattered about on the floor.

The leaves and things are supposed to be on the plant. But they're not where they're supposed to be. Something has happened.

There is no thought of sequence of events. No fear. But the plant isn't right.

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