remembrance of things past.

"as soon as each hour of one's life has died, it embodies itself in some material object, as do the souls of the dead in certain folk-stories, and hides there. there it remains captive, captive forever, unless we should happen on the object, recognize what lies within, call it by its name and so set it free." marcel proust, contre-sainte-beuve 1954

{photographs by mike flem}