It is a funny practice trying to define time, I can pinpoint the event that started it all, but then time just kept on going, even when I felt it should of quit. And then there are the pictures, neat piles, printouts ordered in line on my coffee table. They are there, a definitive, quantitative representation of time passing, not necessarily in their content but just in the fact that they are there.
They are the touchstones for me, they go forward and back, and remain unchanged, while the whole world moves around them. The photographs each tell their own stories, but their greatest triumph is that in their own oblique way, they come together in a refuge, a thin but steady stream.
A year had passed and now it has been two.
A winter, a spring, a summer and another fall and everything I have seen since up until now.
