just woke up. yesterday just a blur. i was talking to a friend of mine from school yesterday, someone whom i haven't met in about three years. the memories we share go back fifteen-sixteen years, through the years spent growing up through school. the point i'm trying to make here isn't actually about those awesome wonder years in school. throughout our conversation, my friend (his name's Ritam, by the way) kept referring to my memory, how its unusually sharp, and how clearly i remember stuff from way back in Class IV or V which by all rights i should have forgotten. its besides the point that to affirm my supposedly remarkable memory's accuracy, he himself has to (and does) remember all the things we were reminiscing about, and so his memory's as sharp as mine, probably sharper. the thing is, this accidentally coincides with one of the conversations i occasionally have within the voodoo prismatic facets of myself. one of the primary reasons my conscience allows me to get high is because the laudanum (albeit with  curious fu manchu oriental elegance) casts an ink-black screen on my mind, allowing me for those hours to exist squarely in the here and now. physiology would however not record the oriental elegance of the opiate, and would probably quantify the event by the number of brain-cells i end up killing everytime i get high. i find it macabrely ironic that i derive such peace by ritualistically destroying the one good thing my friends find remarkable in me, the eerie ability to remember. is this all i wanted to post about? ha. i don't remember.