The little bully, the physicist and the big always-happy-guy.
None reminds me of me.
But I recognize all of their faces, even the shy little one.
It was as though I had found an old journal, cleaning up the room - its paper crisp and yellow: A little crisp-er than meant to be, and writing a little grey-er than it once used to be.
Some memories have names, and some do not, but they are all hazy, warm, and dirty from a day of play.
I miss school.
