at the very inside of what we call this, our temporary state of reaching for another state, of unmaking the temporary, otherwise known as memory or
"nothing which has once been formed can perish...
everything is somehow preserved."
and after sleeping for too long, I open today's memory and it reminds me that - un idioma se muere cada 14 días; 107 personas se mueren cada minuto. is it better to be awake than to be honest with one self. they both sound terrifying
and what we end up finding buried beneath our pillows are fragments, not left behind but waiting, to be excavated. the ashes becoming. the archeology of who we don't yet know we are. we are. always about to become. because
"...the only happiness is the satisfaction
of a childhood wish."
(inspired by a conversation between twenty of us neo-astronauts and Sigmund Freud, Virginia Woolf, and James Joyce, under the roof of an exploratory wish machine in Pasadena, CA)