Moments aren’t predetermined. Memories are nothing more than electrical impulses from the hippocampus. The parts that make us who we are, the good and the bad, are in the now. What I think tonight might not hold true in the light of the day and years from now, the compactized version of my life stored in my oh so unreliable brain, would be so distanced from my being as if it was fiction. Some other person, some other life. And so, I write. So that when the aliens of tomorrow find this somewhere in their pre-historic database, they’d know we were as human as we could be. Far from Perfect, Flawed and so damn Fascinating.