I like things that are dead that used to be alive. I said this the other day to someone and at the time I didn't think twice about it. Now, after reflecting on the thought, I am beginning to question why I like things that are dead that used to be alive. Is it the texture? the rough indents of a log that feel like the inside of someones palm. I remember someone telling me when I was really young that you can work out exactly how old a tree is by counting the circular lines on the inside of its limb. Or feathers.. is it their fragility and the notion that they once lived a life above the clouds that I will never know. I think there is an aspect of fascination in my fetish. I like the idea that I can keep the remnants of a life once lived, a life completely different to mine. So maybe its an escapism? Or maybe its because I don't see death as something that should be feared or loathed. I do not wish to be immortal. I wish to fall into the natural flux of the universe, for my remnants to be kept as memory of a life once lived, a life once lived with passion. I wish to be pressed between the pages of a loved book like the wilted petals of a fossilized rose, for my perfume to linger. I wish to be regenerated into the earth so that when someone feels the rough indents of a log they know that, in some sense, they are touching the inside of my palm.