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The endless fog of memory blankets the awareness of time. Objects and faces that once took you back to a specific time and place are losing their definition, they have become trapped in a peripheral existence. Some memories are still alive amongst the debris and decomposing remnants of thought, we water those memories like dying house plants. There in the pile of clutter where we least expect to derive growth sprouts emerge amidst a pile of compost. Even the most fleeting and insignificant memory was still remembered, and in its deconstruction, it yields something necessary to evolve.

Lost in the soft lull of infinite fog we are still informed and reminded by the most non-integral items, they still hold weight even in their mundane existence they can bear fruit. The plastic flagging of a trail dictates which way to travel. It is that inevitable artificiality in the natural landscape that serves as a trigger, more often than not, just as it takes longer for the plastic to return to the earth, it takes longer for those triggers and symbols assigned to our memories to deteriorate

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