If you walk into my bedroom right now, chances are you will trip on something . Actually, probably more likely, multiple "somethings". In one corner, in a messy stack shoved against my dresser, lies a couple bulging photo albums, atop several worn, dirtied, smudged, and ripped collections of sloppily penciled-in thoughts. Not four feet above it rests a tidy shelf, boasting my collection of yearbooks from the four schools I attended. Okay, pick a number between one and three hundred-sixty. Now imagine you turn that many degrees in any direction. Wherever you end up, you are looking at more scattered song lyric journals, diaries, and random (filled) notebooks than you can count. Now, most would call this hoarding, and I am sure they are probably quite correct. But as I sit and surround myself in these dusty recordings of thoughts and memories, a very wonderful and unexplainable emotion of sentiment washes over me. Have you ever stumbled across something that you wrote back