the quantity of time did not matter. i could have written it twice over each time i scavenged through every folder i would had touched the days before; still unfound, and still convinced it is a better version. writting comes as a possession for me. when the words fall, they must be caught, or dropping them is devestating and the work is left as known fragments in my mind, a sentence that seemed right; never to be repeated and no other will do.
the last post was a victim of this trial. i had written it. somewhere. my memory tells me it was typed, my documents tell me it is missing. unsure of the title, forgotten platform, but 3 solid paragraphs that seamlessly wove together my thoughts on the purposeful rotation of a cityscape equated to the addiction of my rotated atmosphere series. a questioning of patterning and the reasoning to be shaken in vantage point.
so a lost page is a heartache. and the written style, and exercise it’s own pattern as well. i’ve been possessed to write this entry simply as a means to move on. the sentences are finally ending.
