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mmm..Diaries, memoirs, love letters lost.  Travellers have always become separated from their writing.  Left behind on a park bench or lost in the rain.  Or the ferry sinks and we survive with only the soggy scarred parchment of our skin.

mmm..At first there is great sadness in the loss of a journal.  The idea that history too has somehow vanished, as though Life were only real when captured in words.  Yet Time is scrivened far more passionately in the laughlines and crow’s feet of our faces, in the venation and callouses of our hands. Only in tattoo does the written word become poetry.  

            Alas, we are Life's paper, not Her pen.

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