A museum above my desk, a couple on my phone, a few in notebooks I’ve since lost. I’ve always wanted more than anything to write the poetry that I’ve felt I have lived, to take the photo that feels like “that night”. And yet, for the thousands of photos of my life, I never could take a photo of who I was. Compulsive words in complex journals, as if I could fit myself into the pages. As if I don’t miss whoever I was when I could fit my life into a couple of sentences and a few nights. All of these buried keys beneath a rising tide. Some way to find my way back, as if breadcrumbs work in a river.