One returns to the very same landscape, again and yet again, seeking to reclaim those moments of pleasure, that have the nasty habit of burning holes in your pocket and falling through.

With the taste of the past in the mouth of the present, one returns to whatever has left such an imprint, only to find that it no longer fulfils, in quite the same way.

We have mapped ourselves so completely, to this changing field of our body, working over time, to stop the flowers that grow there, from losing their fragrance.