the reference point that my grandma used to modify the input of each image was out of kilter. all her phonetic filters were scattered. the language – infected, what doesn’t kill you at first, will try a second time.
short is the path from a memory to a memorial (to one self).
narrowmindedness never suffers from micromania, my grandpa said, as he was squeezing out the last drop of his pent-up anger.
