I see myself in my projected shadow—a shadow larger than my body, containing both myself and everything I’ve ever lived. I cover my face, and with it, the shadow. My memory records who I am and what I do. And in the light, I fade away.
Light captures an impression of who I was—a colored intensity, white fire expanding over the former me. What remains is always a sensation, an open mouth. What remains is an intimate, intense, impressionistic play: color composed of shadows and other lights. In complete darkness, sound propagates through each point where I see myself, atoms in a random walk.
I reconfigure myself in time and space. My mouth becomes scream, despair, suffocation, a silent song whose texture is as vast as the memory I carry. What remains is memory as sensation—a dance where what we perceive arises from within ourselves.
From the darkness, only impressions remain.