Proustian Anamnesis

When I was walking into the office this morning, I caught a whiff of some vanilla and coffee from the outdoor coffee shop, and I was transported back to my freshman year of college, on a cold rainy day when I had no classes, and sat in our apartment in the dark woods, stirring Maxwell House International Café French Vanilla powder into hot microwaved water, and watching a TCM marathon of Aubrey Hepburn movies on a twenty-seven-inch CRT television.

Later, buying lunch at the grocery store, I saw a box of Lemonheads candy on sale for twenty-five cents. I bought it, ate one, and suddenly I was eleven years old, visiting my father’s office, with the scent of singed circuit boards and solder hanging in the air just outside the lab. Innocence lost, and now and then, fleetingly visible.

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In the Central Tower, Watching.

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