Do you ever have the feeling that there are memories so delicious that you wish, but don't think, that you could put them on the page? It's not the ones in which particularly momentous things occur--for me, they're very little things indeed--a chaste night kissing a Canadian girl who roomed with my roommate's girlfriend (and whom I never saw again), or walking in my dress suit in London's Camden neighborhood on a rainy Sunday Summer early morning, with security alarms clanging all around, as if some movie cat burglar was going from store to store. When these things happen, they leave such a deep, atmospheric impression that just remembering them brings back a wave of nostalgia and pleasure. But they are moments whose meaning derives so much from my own inner workings, and how can that be placed on the page? I can tell you my stories, but how can I show why little things matter? Sometimes I journal the tiniest memories, and sometimes the memories even gain something for me once I put them in the journal. But sometimes the texture of the memory remains within me, and I wish I could share that texture with you.