Sometimes, you are snapshots. Found objects. Morsels. A trail of breadcrumbs.
You are things I must piece together, things I have borrowed without permission that came without instructions beyond a pamphlet written in a clunky, hasty attempt at a translation to English.
You are a certain North Atlantic triangle that claims to pull like migration patterns but, in my humble opinion, is more just an intersection with a terrible traffic light that sends us both barreling forward at the same time.
Yet, in those rare, fleeting moments where the chemicals and the silver and the light come together, in those times when everything syncs beyond my understanding of how a camera or you or I function, there seems to be some semblance of clarity.
But this, too, is only a snapshot.