I was just thinking to myself that I hope I make it back home before my mother moves, so that she doesn't have to go through the stacks of books, old love letters, high school journals, and fifteen years' worth of music magazines. I was thinking that I'd rather be the one to go through these things, separate what I want from them, and burn the rest in a field somewhere. and then it hit me.

I don't even know where a field is anymore back home. I mean, I can think of some places, but the fields that I spent a sizable portion of my adolescence burning shit it are no longer in existence. Gone are the locations of several dozen bottle rocket wars, choked-down cigarettes, pyromaniacal episodes, and subsequent threats to take us to the burn ward. All gone. huh. Guess I'll just have to recycle that stuff.

Theme Time Radio Hour Ep. 14: The Devil