I sit in my dark office, a room alone in the the massive penthouse apartment. Legs up on the table I notice the tautness of my back and the looseness of my shirt as rain drops slowly crackle on the skylight above me. Minimal, ambient synthesizers waft out of monitor speakers, as my cat sits sleepily next to me on a pile of moving boxes. I’ve been thinking a lot, having hit so many checkpoints in my life this year, wondering of how satisfied they make me, and comparing them with the past. Sifting through memories of scents and sensations, views of hidden bays spied from remote mountains, and nights laid in shrine gardens staring up at maple trees. Are experiences’ worth measured for their immediate value, or the aftertaste that carries through a lifetime? How much of the import I place on these things comes from the decay of detail, and the crumbling of a slowly filling memory?