2024.03 The Lost Memory Machine

In each human mind, there exist spaces—I picture them as forest clearings, overgrown with brambles and vines, bones of dead trees cracking under each step—where we keep our least treasured memories. No ordinary paths lead there. Only ghosts of roads taken long ago. Or an accident. A smell, a sight, a texture. One false step and a dry twig have snapped under the heel. Loud as gunshot, faint like the click of a camera shutter. Enough to wake the past. 

Mailman Running

Have a Think

Stories and photography for chronic overthinkers.

Thank you for signing up. I respect your time and will never send spam.