Mind wanders, things fade. I did not begin again, I just began.

I was 15 when I heard about the actress Faye Dunaway for the first time. I remember thinking her name was a pseudonym and a personification of fadin’ away.

A black envelope against a white background. In reality, it was the other way around, white vs. black. But I don't know if that matters.

I tried to print out the text you sent me but my printer was out of black ink. All that came out was a faded text, light gray, completely illegible. I often think how words, even in between the lines, are shaped by the material written on, the context written in – everything that may exist in the in-between as a sort of collection of what was attempted written. But I know we are trying to name the same thing, we just don’t know what. Not with the words nor with the images.

Looking through the looking glass - or is it even that? - text becomes a circle. I can’t read what it says, even after spending some time trying. Instead, the words have turned into a clock.

The last time I recall looking through a keyhole was on TV. It was in a movie I watched last week, showing a teenager's legs in the girls’ bathroom at a hotel in Turkey. Their voices spoke about secrets and boys – teenage things. The keyhole before that must have been the one in Rome. I stood in line for almost an hour, watching well-dressed people arriving at service in the church next door and the woman working in the food stand, clearly bored, trying to sell ice cream and sodas and churros to the queuing people at the otherwise empty square. When it finally was my turn to look through the tiny keyhole – the metal around all shiny from all the gazes staring through it – I looked into a garden, followed by the view over the city, directed straight onto St. Peter’s Basilica on the other end of the city. Despite being kilometers away, the church suddenly seemed so close. I tried to take a picture of the view – as you do. The tiny scope of the keyhole and the far- reaching view must have been too big a contradiction for my camera. It is taught to look at one thing at a time. I had come here to look at everything this keyhole had to offer, but in my camera’s opinion, most of it was kinda in the way of the view.

It's a little strange but it is a keyhole. It’s an ambiguous access, looking through but not entering. You see something small, thinking that it tells you something big, but you never really know.

I often end up with a pile of different notes. Some here, some there, some forgotten and some rediscovered, completely out of context. I don’t know what these notes amount to, as if they circle what I’m trying to grasp myself, hoping to find it along the way.

Where does the , belong? I’m tired of the .
It must have forgotten its beginnings? I’ve got no other explanation.

Perhaps you do not need to describe anything any longer, because you have become a part of that which you described, and you are now lacking perspective.

Perhaps.

Written by Emma Aars