In the times of the analog, old men like my own Grandpa used to take everywhere with them the few photos of their treasured memories. To keep them safe from any possible damage, they wrapped them in a plastic pocket, before having them placed inside the wallet or in the other pocket near to the heart.
This small series started with that detail in mind. Except for there’s one damage to which no memory escapes: our constant reinterpretation and rewriting of it.
(a friend) long gone
(home is) a farm on mars
(love) in the times of cholera
(not) the summer you were used to
(on the road) nowhere
(that peak) we never climbed