Phantom memory

Such a dismal, grey day, draining all the color from the trees. I am reading Joan Didion’s piece about keeping a notebook. The place is marked in my copy of Slouching Towards Bethlehem by a Japanese ticket, for some kind of concert; something about 5000 people. I had seat 3 in row 28. Whatever it was has vanished from recollection completely. Was it in Aoyama? Like Didion, I sometimes have a hard time distinguishing memory from imagination and tend to cover up gaps in one with the product of the other.

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