It would have been nice to reside in and formulate or percolate all ideas in a nice, airy, spacious room with high ceilings and thousands of texts arranged geometrically and alphabetically in dark, mahogany bookcases just behind the ceremonious chair in which I would sit. That’s how the scene looks on the emulsion. It’s romantic and melancholic. And impractical. I want to move life out of cardboard boxes and onto small flash drives. That is the hop from 20th to 21st Century. My kid bangs on typewriter keys and I think: catch this while you can. Your generation will look at this machine and laugh. My books are like bones. Bones left behind by the various men and women who wrote them. Their bones, clean and shiny, long after they’ve gone. Bare bones. Cores. Hearts. Essence. Matter. Subject. Inclination. I can no longer box them up and transport them. There are too many and the various moves have left them brittle. Or me. Probably me. Brittle lenses reveal brittle scenes. I wish to grind up the skeletons and save the white powder in a tiny, cardboard envelope. I wish to store everything that is my experience on microchips. The Meaning of Life? Plug this in and I’ll show you.