There is no first moment, no singular word or place from which a picture springs because the event seen is in the future. Nothing is fixed. In and out of the pictures goes fact and fiction, mind and matter woven into patterns that may have something in common with a future event and may be hidden among them a filigree that will in time become a future event. They are a fragment of some tapestry. They either signify too much or too little. What are they but fragile moments of grasped fragments, they come and go too quickly for me to gain more than fleeting impressions. They beckon with their chimeras and sorceries, all ambiguity and flux. They are far too complex and from my own perspective they are too much of a profusion, random portrayals, slivers of sight. Yet amid their disorder curious juxtapositions abound. What if I see things falsely. Do I see the pictures correctly or do I see them in an altogether different way? Through their collision, am I deflected into another trajectory by their impact, by wanting to distance myself from them that I end up seeing something entirely different. There is nothing I can do except be pulled along by the swift and hidden current of my own destiny, no matter how hard I fight against them, I am unable to do anything but tread water for now.