What Remains

    As we move through life our minds operate like strainers, accumulating fragments of our experiences and archiving them in our lobes. These things we say, we hear, we see, we feel settle into our skin like the kiss of the sun and seep into our bones eventually comprising who we are. A group of four long black boxes that hang from brackets on the wall, the roof of their glossy mouths arced back and hanging open as a cascade of warm white paper drapes out of the opening like a tongue. The thick stack of thin paper is soft and tawny in places, and there is a texture that interrupts its otherwise smooth surface, when one picks up a leaf upon closer inspection they have words watermarked into the page. It is the same phrase repeated over and over, with a slight variation from box to box.
        "What was... said... heard... seen... felt."

By adhering vinyl text to the screen, fewer fibers settle in the area in which they are present, creating a watermark in the paper after it is pressed and dried.