Preface to LILLIAN
I’ve had this thought for as long as I could remember. That there was a room somewhere that holds all I’ve ever lost. At first it was an attic full of drawings, maps and broken action figures. For an hour each night when moonlight hit the room, the papers would breathe, they would move and they would speak. To have the drawings back I needed only to stare at the moon and for an instant they would appear as spots on my eye.
Then it was a garden planted with the hard drives from all my old computers. Untitled documents and virtual cities sprouted from the ground, setting pollen to the wind. To have this data back, I needed only to wait, and for an instant, and it would appear as a scent in the spring.
Now it is an ocean of trash and a sea bird that dines on bottle caps. It’s an old tire turning in the waves, a new home for the little fish, a new home for the prey. And it is a tide that takes everything I didn’t mean to give away.
