That feeling of year old piss stained coloring book paper from the fifties crumbling underneath your fingertips. Small yet powerful hands. Not understanding where things come from or how precious they are. How precious is life itself? Decade old newspapers speaking about hippies burning things, and my great grandfathers death. I never thought that the memories of my childhood would be diminished before my eyes. Picture frames disappearing and burned when they are looked upon. Memories diminishing and vanishing in space. I can't follow daddy. He can't be here with me. Creating this memory, creating this space and piece of mind is what I crave. Grasping old paper and crumpling it between smooth as sand hands. So smooth everything feels different. Experiencing new feelings and new sensations. Those then transferring into memory and then relating it to everything else in your life. One experience can change how you see things forever.