Friday, 27 March 2015



28 March, 33 years ago. I was born.

I thought of putting photos of my childhood, but I felt it too personal.

As one I came, and as one I will someday go.

“Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there. It doesn’t matter what you do, he said, so as long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hands away.”
Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451 (1953).

all things merge into one, and a
runs through it. 

The river was cut by the
flood and runs over rocks from the basement of

On some of the rocks are timeless

Under the rocks are the
and some of the words are theirs.