091313 #trout #timemachine I ache for the past. I don't even mean my own past. I mean *the* past. The past of subway trains and album covers. The past of lawn darts, shag carpet, and real newspapers. I want no clunky reconstruction through self-consciously arranged antiques. I want the real thing. The hand rolled cigarettes, the dark, greased hair, the peculiar color of a wartime sunset. The gasoline powered obliviousness. I want it all. I don't even know how far back it will take me, but I am ready and willing to go there.