Everything we were will be made immaterial.

When we've moved on, when all of this is over and the house has been emptied... What will remain of this intense, enclosed life of ours? We may remember only fragments; perhaps nothing at all. Details randomly lost or magnified, floating on electrical ebbs and flows.

I'm profoundly terrified by the transitory nature of existence. As hard as I try, I see nothing but impermanence, a collection of memories forever fleeting, perfectly fragile. I keep hearing how we should celebrate and embrace our evanescence, how it brings meaning to who we are and what we choose to create. Perhaps. In many ways it's the ultimate driving force, it's what pushes me to record all of it, over and over again — but it doesn't make it any less cruel. As we lose the invincibility of youth & see giants wither one by one, loved ones reduced to living in a single, eternal, empty moment devoid of context & all the small things that bring solace... I don't know. It's a grand ideal that seems all too irrelevant when scaled down to human size. Out here we are all facing the unknown; everything we were will be made immaterial.

Save for a few snapshots.