i see my friends taking snapshots of everything they see (in their neighbourhoods) they write diary entries to record everything they have experienced (thus far) they say they want to be immortal through words and records of their (instantaneous) selfs. (stop counting on that camera that hangs round your neck / because it won't ever remember what you choose to forget) foolishly, we all try to swim against the flow of time. We grab every little pieces of life we find (instantaneously) significant, throw them together and poor our hearts out through photo albums and journals and diaries and stories and songs and foolish little sayings we all say: "it's for me to remember myself by." oh foolish little us. we look back years later only to find scattered remains of our childhood. "This is what I chose to remember?". The pieces don't seem to fit, and we can't recall what linked them all together. The lyrics we once lived by, the books that changed our lives, the nights we swear we won't ever forget. Do they still help us get by? or are they just ornaments for our nostalgia?