From time to time you find somethig.

A shell, a rock, an old can of paint with no obvious markings as to which rooms walls it was placed, some family photos hidden in a wooden chest marked trash. If you dig deep enough you may be shocked. The good, the bad, a precious photo of your three month old bubble butt sticking up in the air while your ma cleaned it in the kitchen sink. Or if you're really lucky, they've kept a photo from the 8th grade roller skating party. Parachute pants, Hair Helmets (read afro mullet), gap toothed grin that clearly states "I love Amy Schindler. Can you talk her into liking me too?"

Get over it. QUICKLY. What a horribly difficult and wonderful place to be. I'm not sure if they keep turning the heat up, or if
I've chosen a path that lends itself to a longer journey.

Overall it doesnn't much matter. To some extent it can be viewed as relative. We all know that's not how it really shakes out but it makes me feel better.