O B. gave me a box of Japanese art journals from the sixties. I kept this torn page. Tucked amongst the souvenirs for ten years. Sometimes it joins the ephemera on this desk, gathering or becoming . . .

Traces of fly shit, heat and spilt coffee.

The most loved remainder of a painful journey.

Paper scrap. Memoire becoming digital, (another small conceit).

The closure of this circle frightens and soothes. Kept as if a prayer. Stained and real. This is perhaps my small plot of new land. The one Deleuze advises.
splotch