sad-disease.diaryland.com

Everyday I look at my passport. I chuckle at my picture and remember how excited I was to get that picture taken. I remember sitting in the passport office. I was tired, smelly, nursing a hang over and I kept looking at my feet; they were covered in dirt. Then my number was called and I approached the counter where the woman handed over my little blue/black book. My blue/black book got a few stamps that summer. But now it sits on my shelf. It screams to be used. It needs more stamps. Instead it collects dust.

Ah, one day.

posted 2003-06-17