You curate, cautiously, the museum of your days, your life. You share what you share, sometimes to draw a clear line--point a and point b--that draws attention, that draws the fire, or draws a conclusion that draws the breath away.
You were less complicated, younger, more handsome; I fetch these memories like water from the well, and I am thirsty even if the complements are either false or comical endured by my middle-aged ears. This is the imperfection of time, of expectation and experience. Even one's fondest memories are diluted or devoured by a current myopia, the lens of this lifetime cast back.
Desperate honesty, the Casio's drubbing is the hum and rhythm of what is and will be a strip tease, essentially. Sometimes you reveal just for subtle seasoning, sometimes to confuse and confound. In the hallway, long and echoing, ten pictures are displayed. They are sequentially less fickle, more brave, the artist obviously idolizes some idea of honesty, some notion that nakedness is (or ought to be) sacred.
