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These are the places I lived, loved, slept, played, cried, learned and lost in.


They shaped me, and I, in turn, try to give form to their hidden personalities. I look for the sweet whimsy and colour in straight lines and concrete. 


This is what I saw. 

This what I carry with me.

This is what I remember. 

If I went back tomorrow, these places, those moments would be long gone.  

Who’s to say they ever existed at all?


Eye witness accounts are the least reliable form of evidence.


There are no facts, only interpretations.


A beloved restaurant, a city block that feels like home, a passing glance along a oft-traveled bus route, a neglected graveyard found on a solitary wander, the play of light on asphalt, a sacred God-filled mountain, a bridge between boroughs: these are my imaginary memories.

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