10
NOTEBOOK WILSON SHUFFLED down Cahuenga Boulevard. His scraggly gray beard clung to his sunken cheeks and sweat-stains highlighted the pits of his navy-blue t-shirt. Olive cargo pants hung off his thin waist, weighed down by the hundreds of scraps of paper bursting from his pockets.
Notebook was a record keeper, a walking almanac of happenings on the street. He wrote down everything he saw, from the poignant to the mundane. Whenever his pockets became too full, he would unload his archive somewhere in Griffith Park, a meaningless Library of Alexandria that was blown into the woods as soon as Notebook walked away. Not that it mattered. Notebook never went back and looked at any of those notes after writing them down. The process of recording seemed to be his real compulsion, the thing t
