This morning I cleared out my foot-locker—You'll probably understand how it is. One goes along for moths shoving things into drawers or foot lockers and then suddenly one becomes tired of searching through every bit of nonsense to get at important items. With this in mind I began.—Here was my garters!—The brown pair you "admired" so much—Haven't worn those in well over a year —Yet there they were all crinkled up the way used elastic usually [struck: does] is. These were not discarded—These are a symbol—Shall we say of my "coming of age"—To paraphrase Perchman's story about "Why we fight advertisements"—"I'm sacrificing all now, so that someday I can go home and be able to wear Paris [strikeout] garters without fear that a stormtrooper [strikeout] [inserted: might] lift my pants up and shout "Ah-hah garters!—and thereupon proceed to bayonet me!—Thats why I fight!"— Then there was a box of tacks sent to me by my father—out!—little things, souvenirs—memories—out!—Books read but still around Out!—Here is a gift that I treasure too much to use so we put it aside. Old toothbrushes—