Memories of Boston while making coffee / motor oil ten miles from where I grew up (though at this point, those memories have ceased to be actual memories and have become personal, internal narratives winding, looping): fascination at how those memory / narratives are centered around one person or, in the case of Boston, four – one to four being representative of, indicative of, an entire timeframe / an entire place / an entire iteration of self: joys, fuckups, regrets, longings: moments in time colliding and metamorphosing into some unconsidered shard of themselves.