Forget Magazine. Remember, Remember, Yada Yada Yada.

I'll be getting there later than I expected. I stayed up with Forget all night.

And the Kinko's on Pender is suddenly not open 24 hours, looks like it never was, up close. Had to drive over the Burrard St. Bridge and turn before normal. And it made me think I should go be with you. Valentine's Day. And that.

I remembered how Mike had been pissed off, or stopped dancing at least for a moment, and said: "Man you should be with your girlfriend, PEI and the snow. Fucking websites man. Who needs them?" That was a year ago today.

I went to Kinko's—I have made it a policy never to do what Mike says—and was happy to find BZ's zip disc in my breast pocket. Waiting for me, but me for it all the same. I scanned a group of photos, wanted to show them to you. I was hoping for rain.

At the office the PC said: "disc not formatted" and I did give up. Looked out the window and thought about business. I spent nine bucks on the scanning and elsewhere in that American store, bright like Heaven. Nothing to show for the expense. I felt a little taken off, gotten over,—then I remembered it was Valentine's Day.

I knew the car was down a half tank of gas, knew you'd be weary when I got there. I never bought a present for you, not even a card. And now I couldn't even finish this for you. It was not all I wanted. Imperfect like always, like all love stories. Goddamn zip discs and computers and machines. I decided to use the original header—the one of Mike in the police car. Fuck it.

I had wonderful plan for all the stories. Original photos, done up nice and upside down. But, like I said, the disc wouldn't open here, not even the picture of you and I turning away from the camera—that picture. The one for Valentine's Day, Forget's first birthday, but for You, mostly.

And suddenly, as a shot, it occured to me: I could show you the pictures when I got there. Spill them like dice about you as you slept.

I decided to upload all the new Forget Magazine—well Adam, Rick, Susan and Tom for openers, at least.

Beat that, I thought, and slammed the lights off as fast as I could. Racing out the door and down.

Kent Bruyneel is not a sleeper.