borg again

I thought SP had erased all the photos on my camera, leaving only one– a picture of her flipping me the bird. I was livid. Called her and, since she wasn’t there, blasted her answering machine. Why are we so attached to photographs? You can never have the experience back. We are fascinated by them the way we are fascinated by mirrors. Narcissistically believing they tell us something about ourselves. Perhaps they do. They allow us to gaze eternally at that which flies by in an instant. We hold fractions of seconds in our hands.
As for me, I’m so transient, no one holds my memories for me, however subjectively. The camera is my prosthetic mind, eye, mind’s eye. It reminds me where the time went, who was there, what I cared about in that fraction of a second.

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