A good, real, unrestrained, hearty laugh is a sort of glorified internal massage, performed rapidly and automatically. It manipulates and revitalises corners and unexplored crannies of the system that are unresponsive to most other exercise methods.
The mind I love must have memoirs; of wild places, a tangled orchard where dark damsons drop in the heavy grass, an overgrown little wood, the chance of a snake or two, a pool that nobody’s fathomed the depth of, and paths threaded with flowers planted by the past.
In Memoirs Chronicled I look back for a while, refresh the eye, restore thoughts, and render them for their prime function of looking forward. Chronicled memories help not to mistake imagination for memory.
