Where was I?

Perhaps the mind is a book of lost images – spidery notes written in a wiry hand, a thing to be poured over and decoded –a map without a key or cross. A thing thus pursued by the mind often comes to resemble a dot on the horizon getting smaller and smaller until it is swallowed up by the landscape and only the voice remains - the utterance of a soundless sound.

Maybe as we maneuver these dimly-lit grey corridors of paths near-missing, overlapping but never quite converging, we are only likely to find what we are looking for while looking for something else. It must be there, somewhere. Go back. You will be able to find it if you try, because it is there. It is all there. Just unroll it and, frame by frame, examine the film.