Brocken Inaglory, "Fossils in a beach wall," 2007
Like a beach wall that’s sun-struck, then chilled, then baked by the sun again, I’m spalling. All my memories – (sedimentary, additive, a soft entombment of all those drifting everythings that slowly settled to the bottom of my evaporating seas) – are flaking off, and I split as if struck by a hammer, crack along fissures too fine to be seen by any eye. I forget my name (it’s on the tip of my tongue), forget how to listen to the collective that makes a self, the commensality that binds itself together by chemical whisperings and handfastings. And yet, even without listeners or listenings left, at the long blank broken facings of amnesia, something new pushes up in the interstices: something like love.