That night, when all was still, I opened the door a little too loud. I stole into the kitchen and stood naked by the window. In such a moment, I am free to think of anyone, summon any thought; think about anyone in anyway I like. In this moment, before creeping back to bed and forgetting everything by the morning, before I have to be someone to someone else, I was happy.

Memory’s version captures a truth about the place, not merely as it appears, but as it was felt, played in, dreamed of, as its lineaments intertwined and pulled on mine, delicately adjusting the sails of childhood to catch the breath of meaning that emanates from things - things which, to an adult’s rigging, have only the unbreezy weight of the ordinary about them. Memory can offer up the richness of imagining, where a photograph would only dole out the thin gruel of the visually literal.