(no subject)

Life, in all its butterfly brief commotion . . . I find treasures in moments, partially due to their ephemeral nature.

Yet even in the most fragile winter frost, or the youngest green of spring, there is something eternal. The wheel turns, again and again, and these things come around.
 
And we hold them close, captured in a photograph, or a memory. Memory becomes its own country, our last refuge in twilight hours. And then what? Where is our eternity? Does the country dissolve when neurons cease firing? Who can say.

                                                                                                                                      image from We<3It