photography
Photography is manufactured memory; it is the only way to cut a slice from our moment in time. An eternity of glimpses are pixel-peeped, foolishly hidden from the greedy hands of the railway clock that tocks away our seconds and minutes and years to point of departure/rapture. We are caught in that moment, the datestamped mosaic confirms; a never-to-be-repeated offer from the universal expanding company. The sun glinting on your hair that late autumn afternoon is bare skull now. We are undone – only the trace remains.
