They have come, early, to a river without a bridge. Scuttle down the sides the papers fly from their pockets in the race to a cool water. The banks are muddy but one of them has swam here before, come through the woods. That one says he would take him to a small fort on an island deep in the woods where did he know? there’s a river. He didn’t know and the creek’s ravine is satisfying and secret.

He has come here in a dream though that is a mistake, it happening before so it is a memory but so fuzzed as to make the friend this or that one perhaps not him or him and the creek is a river is a small lake never big and always hidden in thickets or groves and always a wood deep and delicious in the size of memory (though the road was not far).

A certain memory then, of objects that substantiate his movements, these memories this nostalgia incorporates into this doing of this exact moment. It is this drumsong and this leather engraving on a belt, this hat and this ravine.

~ Eugene Lim, from Fog & Car

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