I finally understand the basis for the myth that if you take someones picture, you own their soul.

As soon as I experience some wonderful moment (this morning: drifting ethereal piano while I slowly, achingly, become aware of warm early morning light on the stone outside the window while rising vented steam rises from a distant building) I have a desire for it to last forever, and then I feel the contemporary yearning to digitally capture it in all the perfection of the moment. There is desperation that stems from the core of me to preserve it, and a happy sadness that I know I can’t.

The human-ness of mnemonic preservation in all its frantic futility.

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