the Victorians are less than a metre below us. At the dump they rise up in order to be merely a scraping away.
We are built upon them and often build right into them. They persist in this fabric, the cloth of our constructed present.
Beyond the metre there are others.
Below this scratched tissue there are others.
We are built up on them. These who persist in the seas, the bogs, along river runs; all the depth and all the changed.
Presently wet or archaic and arid; of some seepage are some and some are in the dust. The dust is the sum of it all, an unaccountable sum. The equation is baked under sun, a tremulous mark of all that was.
All this powder of them, crushed in a rain drop. Some drainage may raise them up once more, the surface of the hidden at the centre of the root. We are fed on the unbidden and in our own food we now build.
This fogged memory teems with life. It is the ravishing solvent and the nurturing soil. We now build forgetfulness. We work up the shape of the real in a momentary lapse, even whilst using the material of the remembered as our clay.
And here we walk.
Our path worn down into remembering.