page 13
Memories are my knots.
They resist my attempts to untangle them.
Each has accrued its own story, like a greasy patina.
Every one entire in itself; locked in its own algorithm.
Truth is in there somewhere, near the core perhaps.
But it's too late to see it.
All there is now is a shape, a blip on the filament of time.
The greater the accretion the more substantial it seems.
They resist my attempts to untangle them.
Each has accrued its own story, like a greasy patina.
Every one entire in itself; locked in its own algorithm.
Truth is in there somewhere, near the core perhaps.
But it's too late to see it.
All there is now is a shape, a blip on the filament of time.
The greater the accretion the more substantial it seems.
Ref:
Date:
Location:
Photographer:
page 13
Memories are my knots.
They resist my attempts to untangle them.
Each has accrued its own story, like a greasy patina.
Every one entire in itself; locked in its own algorithm.
Truth is in there somewhere, near the core perhaps.
But it's too late to see it.
All there is now is a shape, a blip on the filament of time.
The greater the accretion the more substantial it seems.
They resist my attempts to untangle them.
Each has accrued its own story, like a greasy patina.
Every one entire in itself; locked in its own algorithm.
Truth is in there somewhere, near the core perhaps.
But it's too late to see it.
All there is now is a shape, a blip on the filament of time.
The greater the accretion the more substantial it seems.
Ref:
Date:
Location:
Photographer:
Quipu
page 13
Memories are my knots.
They resist my attempts to untangle them.
Each has accrued its own story, like a greasy patina.
Every one entire in itself; locked in its own algorithm.
Truth is in there somewhere, near the core perhaps.
But it's too late to see it.
All there is now is a shape, a blip on the filament of time.
The greater the accretion the more substantial it seems.
They resist my attempts to untangle them.
Each has accrued its own story, like a greasy patina.
Every one entire in itself; locked in its own algorithm.
Truth is in there somewhere, near the core perhaps.
But it's too late to see it.
All there is now is a shape, a blip on the filament of time.
The greater the accretion the more substantial it seems.
Ref:
Date:
Location:
Photographer: