Cassette tapes unwind as the past tells us more lies, the coffee has lost its steam upon the table, falling back into a milky stain. The measure of our lives is the length of our shadow, a hammock never hung among still trees, a backpack never worn to carry the damage in the through cave. The sirens sing their song along crashing shores, all thats left is this walkman without batteries and a dated calendar without entry.
– Josh Fleming
Image by: André Josselin