There must be a reason why memory is such a selective, transformative process—maybe unconsciously we choose to remember things that reiterate our identity. As I get older living an ordinary life, I have a desire to remember, but that which I have to recall seems like nothing but monotonous information; and yet, I strive to create an archive where the noise of a day is reduced to a few simple words that in time, as memory subsides, become poetic gestures that beg the day to be recalled.
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Southbound
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