It’s (Only) In Your Head

Inquiries about the essence of memory, both real and hypothetical, are answered like the giving of a gift: cautiously, wrapped in opaque paper. Past informs present with necessary discrepancies maintaining timbre and illusion, inspiring tone and trajectory. A smell, as such carried by the wind, unfolding like a sheet from the mountain over the plane. Or the sound of ice heaving in cold, dry air — like the cracking of a bone. Cold Snap they say.