Clement Francis Fuentes

I don’t remember what happened, not with any sort of clarity; it’s the way the air shifts around the body as it moves through space, a fraction of a motion reduced to half-formed shapes. A suggestion of a memory, trace residue of the intersection of person-place-time.

I act on the compulsion time after time. Can it never be satiated? Never as good as the real thing. I am not a person I am a vessel for an experience – it is my duty to record, repeat, relive. A series of mimicry and reflection, blurred images held still for a fraction of a second. Perhaps someday I’ll be satisfied.