It cannot show how my hydraulic pump pushes red corpuscles scattering into the industrial sunrise of memory. This flat lined E.K.G. of time with no ink marks , blue or red, cannot show how long to build transparent links. It cannot show identical surf wagons chasing the other way, or gimcrack gifts at every stop. Or how I reach for the hill on the horizon, my hand doing a slow octopus crawl over its peaked crest. It doesn't show how much fuel I burn thinking about-- how quickly I go bankrupt at the cost. It shows when I'm in Freehold New Jersey, or Chambers, Texas but not what state I'm in. It won't show the mouse tear that eeks out at the corner, runs across and hides in the ear. If this record showed accurately what is between these lines it would show me half full, half empty.