There are absences detonated by the fog, by the radishes on the countertop, a taste, a texture, the building with the number 1968. After all, memory is a minefield, a misstep can detonate a memory.
The result can vary, sometimes it is part of a massive explosion, where nostalgia turns to earth in the head, heart and throat. Or a deafening moment, with that beep that remains. Sometimes leaving a mark that will always sting, like a phantom limb.
What am I talking about! It's not the time, a drone spied on us through the window! Damn Charlie Kaufman! He was the one who came up with the idea to erase memories and now there are two deaths, for the one who keeps the curse of memory.
Photography by Fernando Sarano
Constant reader, sleepless baker, anthropologist in progress, fool (who sometimes writes).