… where does one start, taking out that box of yellowed photographs, so old-fashioned and obsolete in digital times? Reliving moments that seem not only light years ago, but belonging to someone else all together; without cynicism or excess luggage. All those little histories faithfully captured yet unsuitable for any history book, so personal you feel a voyeur of your own snapshot memories. Perhaps reading diary entries from the past with their deluge of ongoing insecurities and petty updates; like watching an old movie on television, gently amused by the slow-paced editing and outdated fashion sense: pencil mustaches and intimidating shoulder pads. Or looking in a mirror reading the face? That intricate play of lines, increasingly defined, weather worn after centuries of life’s bad breath.