Before I say anything, I do not regret buying anything. I must slow down, this is true. But, no regrets. I love Mulan memorabilia and I love all the postcards of old Detroit that I purchased. My hair is silky and soft from the conditioner that I bought from the organic grocery store. And music makes me happy.

I love to get my hands on anything that has to do with old Detroit. Particularly the 1900s through the 30s. I don't have a huge interest in anything past that era. I think the whole "retro swing movement" has left a bad taste in my mouth. I don't like it when things get bastardized so they can be accessible to the masses. For the most part, the masses are a bunch of swine; swilling in mud but believing that the filth is actually silky satin sheets. Bleh.

The postcards I've bought are mostly from the early 1900s. Some from the 20s. Some are used. It's neat to look at the postmarks "1911, 1906" and so forth. To pass my fingers over the ink and the 1 cent stamp.

I'm convinced that an old friend of mine and I have walked these very streets in Detroit in that day and age. Things feel so familiar in Detroit, in an old nostalgic way. I walk along these streets now, and I don't wonder how it was like "back then." I remember.

I remember the smell of fresh paint on new houses; fresh bread from bakeries; the scent of the dirt on the roads; the moist green scent from the Dutch elms and grass; perfumed women and cologned men.

I remember the myriad of sounds that come with a city that was alive; hooves on cobblestone; the hum of trolly wheels racing on the tracks; women and men laughing; Old Main's clock tower tolling; footsteps; music rolling out of shops and homes; of little boys yelling; and the scraping sound of ropes on the sidewalk as young girls count how many kisses they've recieved to the rhythmic beat of their feet hitting the ground as they jump.

I remember how the sun was honey yellow, filtering through the cathedral of leaves above; families sitting on their front porch, watching the sun go down; looking through the windows of Hudson's; the colors of walls; the sky; gleaming silver, glowing brass of elevators and fixtures.

I remember the cool dampness inside the library; and the breeze from the river that fanned my cheek as I walked down Woodward Avenue to Kresges. I remember the hot summers; the crisp wind and the pillowy snow in January.

I remember being with my friend, traipsing through the crowds, arms locked, my head on his shoulder, the sound of his breath like a strong wind through a cavernous expanse, the sound of his voice speaking, his laughter encompassing me.

I remember. How could I forget?