A Self Made of Passing Seconds XI

I look almost like a smudge of silver graphite in this picture, with a hint of red smudge as if the lake sketched me, rather than the camera. It’s a portrait of becoming—every edge in negotiation. It reflects the idea of Gaston Bachelard: “We are never real historians, but always near poets, and our emotion is perhaps nothing but an expression of a poetry that was lost.”