Handwritten Journal
Photographs in hand, I revisited Olivia.
We arranged my work. We interacted. We learned more about one another.
For once, an ounce of kindness did not spur an abundance of fantasies. Delusions of mutual interest common to cordial exchanges with women were absent in my writings about her. I just wrote about her. It was an achievement of emotional maturity. It, however, didn’t stop me from justifying a pursuit of someone much younger than I was.
