You see, having to get this finished by the day before yesterday even ruins my cooking abilities. I have already made some small corrections to the text as it offers itself to me in digital media, thus breaking the great gonzo journalism rule of writing fast and never doing rewrites. This brings me on to the question of censorship and the limits between what I have written about and what I have not written about. Memory only reproduces a piece of the past, and tells us about as much or as little as a photo album. Times past can only be revealed by involuntary remembrance, set off through some chance experience by a sensual impression.
Today looks even colder and damper than yesterday.
A month of time includes an awful lot of things. From here on, I'm going to try an experiment. Up til now, little of this account has been truly exhaustive, but just to see what happens, I'm going to try to include every memory I have of the hitchhiking trip. As experiments go, I doubt it begins very well, because the first leg of it is particularly dim. All I am really sure of is that Bob took nothing except the jeans he was wearing, the shirt and the shoes he had on, and his denim jacket.