On that wall: a picture of us. In black and white. Times have passed. How we look out into the distance, your swiveling motion not quite caught by the camera, blurry. Dynamics caught in the moment. We are everything to each other and nothing to anybody else. But maybe, the encapsulation of a feeling, of a moment in history, a reference to other people’s memories of moments similar to ours. There’s a crack in the wall, the glass is shattered and the frame has taken a beating as well. Just as well… This picutre: a well. Source of all nostalgia, grief and pleasure alike. That one day in spring. Don’t they all look alike?