all my life i have walked looking down at the sidewalk, at the street, at the hardwood floor in the old house. i look down so i can find shreds of memories and pick them up, put them in my pockets and glue them onto blank paper afterwards. i also pin them to the walls but mostly i think i write them down, on my body in ink that lasts forever. when i am gone, these particles of days will be gone as well. i am in all my extension just an excuse for documenting small symbols, i mean i am made of ashen, fragile canvas.