He said now he understands what I meant when I said I was nostalgic.
We walked through Washington Square Park and he was reminded of his college years and the memories for which he is now nostalgic for. He wants the past now because they are no longer attainable, and because the present is a bit sad- a sadness we both share, an emptiness for a love we both seek, which appears to be impossible to hold, touch, keep, retain.
He is now nostalgic.
I ask him to try and use his nostalgia as a source of creativity. Write a play, a short story, make a film out of it, I say because I wrote so much that it finally one day ended. All my papers became tainted with the word, and every word out of mouth sounded like it. I even tasted it in my meals.
And now I relate to my friend, who tells me he is suffering from nostalgia.
We continue to walk and eventually the park closes, and the garbage trucks interrupt our conversations, and our sentences become memories that one day we may be nostalgic for.

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