"A man is always a teller of stories; he lives surrounded by his stories and the stories of others; he sees every thing that happens to him through them; and he seeks to live his life as he tells it to himself." I read that this morning in Nausee by J-P Sartre. It strikes me, an addict of stories and soaps of all kinds, as being pretty close to the truth.
Cherries - their taste, the way, as they hang in the tree or lie in the bowl, their skins shine above their plumpness; their smell, their taste, and the satisfaction of shooting their stones one by one into flower beds where they, may one day, grow into cherry trees.
Remembering what was on the shopping list which I had forgotten to take to the supermarket with me.