Year after year, memories become so similar to dreams. The farther in the past they are, the older they are, the harder it is to distinguish them from that which our imagination creates. If it weren’t for souvenirs, props from the past, photographs – there would be no evidence of the difference.

We’re going in circles. We travel the same paths over and over; closed in invisible cages we delude ourselves and pretend that if the need ever arose, we’d throw ourselves forward into the unknown. What we really are is cowards and even if we get away from the mother’s tit for a moment, fear makes us return to known paths. We bump into people, pretending to be giving them friendly hugs.