Between a finger and a thumb lies the corner of our world, the intimate space of our being.
The distance with which we measure the substance of our past. Years of entanglement made up of scattered oddments and embellished anecdotes. Tales of broken threads which we desperately hold on to, for they are our only support, the strings on which we hang, our safety net.
In the mist of our fragmented childhood, home becomes the only thing that binds it together, a common ground to which we may anchor our fleeting souvenirs. – Alexandra Serrano